


Here For This Moment

by dreadedawn



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alive Hale Family, Always Female Stiles Stilinski, F/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-06 22:55:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 29,536
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5433899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreadedawn/pseuds/dreadedawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Like most teenagers, life is pretty bland for Stiles, so she must be hallucinating when she sees that thing in the road, right?</p><p>Or, Stiles is a girl and basically everything is not quite canon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> first series on here/for teen wolf so bear with meeeee  
> ummm I had this all written out and then my internet fucked itself over and I had to restart this whole process  
> been waiting for inspiration to hit for a while so ofc it happens when I have a million other things to be doin
> 
> not beta read and I'm shit at editing my own work  
> (obvs i don't own anything except hopefully the idea for the plot)
> 
> title taken from vampire's kiss by john gold

Stiles Stilinski has always been tall for a girl, not to mention lanky and graceless. This is, of course, her own internalised opinion of herself, but that does not mean for a second that she is self-pitying. Sarcastically self-deprecating, perhaps, but in all honesty her appearance isn't something she spends much time considering.

There are a few occasions where, bleary eyed and half-asleep, she catches herself in the mirror before heading downstairs for breakfast in the morning. When this happens, she surveys her reflection; relatively well groomed eyebrows (plucking them, she finds, is surprisingly satisfying) above brown eyes, a lazy smile, and a constellation of freckles and moles.

She raises one long finger to the tip of her stubby nose and pushes, increasing the impish up-turn before scrubbing the sleep out of her eyes and baring her teeth wolfishly. The routine concludes with a wink and she pushes away from the mirror and heads down the stairs.

Stiles' dad's usually on his way out as Stiles trips her way into the kitchen, so after downing a mug of water, she calls after him, wishing him a good day and warning him to eat well.

Her morning routine isn't particularly exciting. 

To be honest, nothing that ever happens to her is particularly exciting.

School is pretty mundane, lacrosse discouraging, and that part time job she'd applied for had never got back to her. She has considered joining the track team, as the cross country activities the lacrosse team were obliged to take part in seemed to be the only highlight of her sporting career, but never really got round to it.

And on top of all that, being 18 doesn't really mean much, it's definitely not everything it's hyped up to be. Not much has changed from when she was 17, except obviously now she can own a gun or get married or go to prison for real (unlikely, but still a consideration), but it still settles weirdly in her stomach sometimes. Honestly, it makes her feel a little vulnerable.

The road is wet, and the sky grey, but Stiles finds herself appreciating the auburn cast that the sunlight put on the trees. 

And she might appreciate this a little too much, she realises, as something throws itself into the road and she has to swerve violently. Her foot slams onto the brakes, throwing her forward over the wheel, her seatbelt jamming and winding her as it cut into her chest.

She doesn't want to move. She stays bent over the steering wheel, lungs confined by her belt, forcing her breath in and out with thoughts racing through her mind, most of them very unhelpful. This isn't the first time she's had a mishap on the road, she has been driving for two years after all.

Slowly, she sits up and undoes her seatbelt, rubbing at her breastbone with the heel of her hand. She knows she needs to survey the damage to her jeep, so, a little shakily, she takes the keys and opens her door.

The road is empty, no cars, no wild animals, nothing that explains her accident.

She must be hallucinating.

She keeps close to her vehicle as she circles and to her dismay finds her front left tire to be flat.

The look she throws at the jeep is thoroughly unimpressed, “really Roscoe? You're doing this to me now? After all we've been through? I fucking hate it when you do this. And here I thought we were bros. I thought we had a bond, you know?”

She continues to chastise her jeep as she crouches down and rests her palm on the tire. She falls silent when she leans closer and sees not a tear but a slash through the rubber.

Staring at the gap in the material with wide eyes, Stiles freezes until she can register this new information and snatches her hand away as if burned and stumbles backwards, landing on her butt on the ground, the wetness soaking into her jeans and gravel cutting into her skin.

She fumbles to take her phone out of her pocket, dialling for Scott.

An eternity passes before he answers, and Stiles would roll her eyes if she wasn't so freaked out.

“Yo Stiles waddup?” Scott answers cheerfully, before adding to whoever he's with “it's Stiles.” as if they wouldn't already be able to tell.

“Scott buddy, I'm going to be late.”

“Huh? Okay but why?”

Stiles huffs, “had an accident, it's all good, don't worry.”

“What's happened?”

She swallows, “I don't know. Just tired, I think. Bro, I'm fine seriously, just... Oh shit I need to call my dad.”

“Stiles, why are you whispering?” Some of the noise on the other end quietens, as if everyone's attention had been caught.

“I think... I think something's here,” she confesses, glancing at the trees that line the other side of the road. She leans forward, an attempt to gain some leverage to stand up, but finds the muscles in her stomach twinge as she does so. It takes her another rock forward to catch enough momentum to stand. The hairs on the back of her neck prickle, she clarifies, “watching me.”

At that moment, in the corner of her eye she sees something big and dark lumber out of the tree line, her breath catches in her throat.

Without thinking, she runs.

She heads towards the trees on her side, less dense, but easier to manoeuvre. 

Blood pounds in her ears, her ponytail whipping at her shoulders, her feet slamming into the damp earth, breaking twigs and crunching leaves. Every frantic step she makes create sound in the silent forest.

She can't hear anything behind her, but some part of her knows that she isn't alone. Whatever it is is agile, and fast, and she doesn't know how long she can keep running despite her surprising stamina.  
Stiles is not at all prepared when she comes across a fallen tree trunk in her path, lunging over it and not quite catching her footing on the other side as the earth slopes steeply away. She tumbles painfully, landing in what seems to be a mostly dried up stream.

Her fall hadn't been the quietest, but honestly she can't find it in herself to get up and keep running, so she lays still, straining her ears to listen for sounds of pursuit with her forearm over her eyes and her other hand over the bruise on her stomach.Her clothes, a deep orange and grey plaid shirt and black skinny jeans, are now thoroughly soaked and streaked with dark soil.

When someone clears their throat above her, she isn't sure how long she's been lying there. And considering the chase she'd been caught up in, she probably should react a little more strongly, but at this point she is too tired to care. She moves her arm from her eyes and squints up at the newcomer.

He's built, from what she can tell from her awkward angle on the ground, but other than that he's a silhouette, so she pushes herself into a sitting position, drawing her knees up to her chest and twists round to face him. She hadn't heard him arrive, so either she has been seriously out of it or he is crazy light on his feet.

“Um, hi,” she greets, as if lying in a stream in the woods were an everyday activity for her. 

He glances around, as if she could be talking to anyone else, his nostrils flare minutely, “are you okay?”

His voice is softer than she expects, but his tone is flat, and vaguely murderous. One eyebrow is raised, and Stiles finds herself taking a moment to acknowledge that his eyebrow game is strong – an aesthetic she can respect. Not to mention his stubble game. And his cheek bones. Who is this guy?

“Um,” she says again, “no?”

“Can I give you a hand?” He asks as if it pains him.

“Um,” damn she feels intelligent. She bites her lip but nods, not sure how embarrassed she should be feeling.

He leans forward, his hand extended, and she puts her own in it. She expects him to just pull her up, but his other hand settles on her ribs, and somehow she manages to scramble into an upright position. 

He gives her a once over, “are you hurt?”

She tests her legs, stretches her arms, there are little twinges, and her elbow feels sore, but other than that she's fine, “I think I'm good.”

He casts his eyes around again, probably considering the best way to get out, “I live near here,” he says.

Stiles isn't sure how to answer that. “Yeah? Cool.”

He rolls his eyes, which Stiles can now see are a sort of bizarre hazel colour, “I could take you there and you could call someone?”

“Oh,” obviously he'd meant that, “yeah. But oh,” she waggles her fingers, feeling a stab of pain shoot up the ring and pinky finger of her left hand, “stranger danger and all that.”

He sighs, “I can leave you here if you'd prefer, but the only way back to the road is up there, and to be honest there isn't really anywhere else for you to go.”

“Oh,” her cheeks warm, “right. Yeah let's go.”

 

“Wow,” is all Stiles can say when she sees the house. It's huge. And so pretty. “What is that, like a mansion?”

The dude just snorts.

“Cool,” Stiles continues as he opens the front door. The inside of the house is just as gorgeous as the outside – even if it's not really to her taste, but it feels so lived in. His family must be huge.

“Shower?” he asks as he shuts the door behind him, ever the poet, she can tell. Stiles doesn't want to take advantage of his seemingly reluctant hospitality so begins to refuse the offer when she catches his leveled glance, she sweeps her gaze down herself – she really does need a shower. She answers with a nod and a grimace.

“Who's this?” asks a new voice, Stiles turns to see a woman at the bottom of the stairs. She's beautiful, willowy with dark hair and eyes.

“She got lost or something,” he answers as if Stiles isn't even there, causing her to huff.

The woman turns her gaze to her, “is that so? I suppose we'd best get you cleaned up.”

Stiles coughs, “yeah, thanks. Sorry.”

She shakes her head with a smile, “come with me, I'll show you the shower. Derek, will you go find your sister?”

The woman takes her up the stairs to a bathroom, Stiles presumes it's not the only one in the house. But it's not just any bathroom, it's like the bathroom to rule all bathrooms. It is probably as big as the ground plan of her entire house.

“Towels are in there, don't worry about using anything you find, I know my daughters have some good taste in shampoo,” she offers with a wink, “just call if you need me.”

And with that, Stiles is left alone. She toes her shoes off, grimacing at the feeling of her damp socks. She doesn't hesitate to strip out of her clothes, all too happy to be done with them, and practically tears out the band holding her hair up.

It falls in waves and tangles to just below her breasts, and a full length mirror beside the sink draws her attention.

Her skin is mottled with an array of colours. There are cuts and bruises down her arms and legs, most notably a blooming patch on her cheekbone and a nick in her eyebrow. She can feel a pulsing throb in her injured fingers now, and notices that the joints are slightly swollen, her knuckles grazed across both hands.

On her stomach is the worst of the injuries though, from the initial swerve. It's shaped like a crescent moon over her belly button, creating a fermata in her skin.

She sticks her tongue out at the reflection.

Bored, she turns to the shower and turns the heat up, might as well make the most of the luxury.

 

There is a terrible flaw in the plan, one that means she is left in the bathroom with only a towel and her practically destroyed clothes. She knows she has to do something, so she wraps the towel around her and opens the door a crack, peeking out onto the landing.

Almost immediately, however, her host is calling to her, “everything alright, sweetie?”

“Um, yeah, I have no...” Stiles can't help feeling awkward. It's practically an innate characteristic by this point. And she's naked in some stranger's house.

“Oh of course, your clothes. Cora!”

A door across the landing opens, and someone Stiles recognises slinks out. “Yes mom?”

“Don't 'yes, mom' me!”

Cora's lazy gaze lands on Stiles and she sighs, slinking back into her room and shutting the door behind her again.

Stiles purses her lips and holds her towel tighter to her chest, prepared to wait a little longer, but Cora reappears, holding a a t-shirt, some underwear and what appear to be leggings, Stiles can't really complain about the fashion choice so she accepts the pile with a shy smile, Cora just rolls her eyes.

Stiles backs into the bathroom to put the clothes on. The shirt, she discovers, is an old BHHS basketball practise shirt, miles too big for her. The hem reaches to below her butt and the sleeves almost reach her elbows. The material is soft and worn, though, and so, so comfortable. It makes the leggings a little more bearable.

Doesn't stop it being weird that she's wearing the underwear of a girl she's never talked to before (her own bra isn't too gross so she decides to put it back on, not that she had been supplied with one anyway). Cora Hale is in the grade below Stiles, meaning their social circles were unlikely to ever mingle. That, and Cora was rarely at school. Like at that moment.

Using her finely tuned deduction skills, she soon realised that her saviour had been none other than Derek Hale, and that the beautiful woman must have been Talia Hale, the lawyer.

She doesn't know much about Derek, but she does know that he basically disappeared after his girlfriend died a few years ago. Police reports described it as an animal attack, the pictures had not been pretty. To be honest she shouldn't have been looking through her dad's files, but it's just too tempting when he leaves them out on the table and--

“Shit! Dad!” 

She lunges for her clothes and darts downstairs, running her hands through all the available pockets and not finding what she's looking for. The leg of her jeans unfurls and catches on her foot as she reaches the bottom step.

Stiles feels the moment she loses balance and her body swings forward without her feet. It's like she's moving in slow motion, so terribly aware of falling but unable to do anything about it but let out a squawk of surprise.

But she doesn't hit the floor.

“Well this is embarrassing,” she blushes, unable to make eye contact with Derek, who now had his arms around her waist. He opens his mouth to reply, but before he can she remembers what she was doing and flails out of his grip, “I can't find my phone!”

She drops to her knees and continues to rummage through her clothes.

“Here,” she looks up to see Derek holding out his own phone, his expression is unreadable as ever, but his eyebrows are drawn low as if he's judging her very existence.

She takes it, “thanks, dude.”

She dials her dad first.

“Beacon Hills Police Department, how can I help you?” comes the voice of Valda, the receptionist. It probably isn't the best idea to call him over the official line, but he usually doesn't check his phone when he's on duty.

“Hi, can I talk to my dad?” She shuffles back so she's leant against the wall with her legs crossed. Derek takes a seat a couple of steps up, she only spares him a tiny glance.

“Stiles?” 

“Yeah?”

“Oh my goodness, are you okay? What happe-”

“Val,” Stiles cuts her off with a cough.

“Oh, sorry, I'll put you through, he was about to send out a team for you.”

Stiles' stomach sinks, dreading what her dad is going to say.

“Right,” she answers weakly, before the phone reconnects.

“Stiles?” Her dad's voice is tinged with worry.

“Hey dad!” She tries for a bright tone, but it doesn't really carry.

“Dammit Stiles, where are you? I got this call from Scott and what the hell, Stiles?”

She sighs, “I had an accident, and I panicked and got lost in the woods, but it's okay, I'm at some guy's house.” She cringes at how bad that sounds. Nice one, way to sound reassuring.

“Some guy? Stiles, don't you even know his name?”

She glances again up at Derek, “I'm at the Hale house, dad.”

There's a soft rush of sound as her dad sighs, “right. Can I talk to whoever you're with?”

“Dad, I'm not a kid!” She protests, realising how childish that makes her sound, not really helping her case. Pressing the phone to her shoulder, Stiles glares up at the man on the stairs, “is your mom around?”

Derek glares back with equal fire, “I'll go get her.”

He disappears into another room and returns with Talia who smiles at Stiles who quickly speaks into the receiver, “dad, I'm giving you over,” before passing the phone to the woman.

“Hello? This is Talia Hale. Oh my goodness John! It's been too long,” she grins, her eyes meeting Stiles'. She wafts her hands at Derek who takes the cue to mean he should take Stiles elsewhere to get comfortable.

They end up in a lush living room, decorated with a colour scheme of greys and rich foresty colours. Stiles can't help but wriggle her toes in the plush rug as she walks over to a big armchair to settle down.

Derek takes a seat on the sofa.

They sit in silence until Stiles can't take it anymore, “so. Derek, right?”

He turns his weirdly beautiful eyes in her direction and nods, swallowing, “Stiles, right?”

She narrows her eyes, “how did you know that?”

If she isn't mistaken, the tips of his ears warm in colour as he hesitates, “you go to school with my sister,” he says eventually.

“Right. Cora.”

He nods and they fall quiet again, she drums her fingers on the arm of her chair, tucks her legs under her more comfortably, “is this yours?”

“What?”

“The shirt. I mean I'm not aware of there being any other Hales this size that would have gone to BHHS recently enough that the uniform hasn't changed since. And you seem like the sporty type, although I'm not sure if I could imagine you playing basketball of all sports, maybe swimming though? I suppose there wouldn't be a shirt for that as you tend to swim topless. Not you, personally, I mean in general. Although I don't swim topless, because you know, I'm a girl and all that. But yeah thanks for lending me this shirt, or thanks to Cora I guess because she gave it to me. You have another sister, right? Laura? Must be handy to have sisters with rhyming names, I'm an only child but I can't imagine trying to find a name to rhyme with mine.”

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?” 

“No-- I mean-- Your name, Stiles?”

Oh. So he'd kept up with the rambling.

“Oh, no. That's just a nickname, like Stilinski?”

“Stilinski?”

“Yeah,” she says slowly, “my surname? Stiles Stilinski?”

“Like the Sheriff?”

“Yeah, my dad,” she can't help laughing, she's not sure why.

“You're the Sheriff's kid?” He frowns, running his eyes up and down, she feels weirdly comfortable under his gaze, even if she can't tell what he's thinking.

“Yeah?”

“But--” he glances away, “oh, do you want a lift home?”

“Hold on, you're going to give me whiplash. Well, more whiplash than I already have,” she rubs a hand against the back of her neck, “what?”

Then Talia pops her head round the doorframe, “Stiles, honey, Derek's going to give you a lift anywhere you want to go. Do you need to go to the hospital or anything? I'm afraid our first aid kit is sort of lacking.”

“Oh,” Stiles glances down at her left hand, she'd been leaving it still as much as she could but thinking about it, she should probably get it checked out.

“Come on,” Derek stands up and starts towards the door, leaving Stiles to scramble after him. 

As she passes Talia, she pauses and smiles, “thanks for helping me out. Is my dad okay?”

She chuckles, “he's just worried, it's fine. I don't blame him, you've had quite a shock.” Talia widens her arms and pulls Stiles against her, burying her nose into Stile's freshly washed hair. Stiles' arms go limp as she accepts the hug patiently. “You come by anytime, you got that?”

Stiles nods, slightly bewildered, and is released to follow Derek. She finds her clothes in bag on the porch with her shoes beside them, she slips her bare feet in and wrinkles her nose at the squelch.

Derek is stood at the bottom of the steps and jangles his keys in his hand as soon as she gets outside, not waiting before heading towards a sleek black Camaro.

Stiles whistles as she slips into the passenger seat, “compensating for something?”

He rolls his eyes and starts the engine.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hello from the other siiiiiiide  
> (hehe get it cuz it's 2016 now so it's like the other side of the y- yeah never mind)  
> sorry i took so long to update :( 
> 
> PS DOES ANYONE WANNA TELL ME HOW TO DO ITALICS PLS THNX

“Oh my god,” Stiles can't stop staring, she wants to, but she can't, “oh my god. I think I'm gonna be sick. What-”

“Stiles, honey, you've got to let me tape it up,” Melissa sighs, it's been a long day and Stiles never has been the easiest patient to treat.

“You mean you wanna touch that?” Her eyes are wide, fixated in a sort of morbid fascination. The swelling has ballooned, quite literally, and just the thought of someone touching her fingers makes Stiles feel a little weak. “Can't we just pretend it's all fine and dandy?”

“You're probably imagining it to be a lot worse than it actually is, believe me,” Melissa takes Stiles' hand into hers, “you ready?”

Stiles shakes her head and swallows, paling, “just do it.”

She feels a sort of growl grow in her throat, trying not to actually shout aloud, but needing some kind of relief. She looks away now, can't look back.

Melissa rubs her arm, “okay sweetie, you're all done,” there's a slip of amusement in her tone. Stiles isn't amused. With her hand cradled to her chest she scowls at the mother of her best friend, who just chuckles.

Now that her wounds have been checked, cleaned and covered, Stiles is free to go.

“Why are you still here?” There's no heat in her voice, just exhaustion. She hates hospitals.

Derek shrugs, “I'll take you home.”

Stiles nods, “sure, if you're offering.” She allows him to open the passenger door for her, “were you waiting this whole time?”

He shrugs again, reaches across her to take hold of her seatbelt, and then stops.

“Um,” Stiles' eyes flit between his arm and his face. Impassive. Even without being able to read his expression, Stiles figures he's having an inner battle. Abort mission?

Nope. Derek apparently decides he might as well finish what he started and pulls the belt across her, snapping it into place at her side. He says nothing as he starts the car.

“Thanks, buddy,” it feels wrong to call him buddy. “So what are you up to? In... life?”

He seems to be decidedly not looking at her, clears his throat, “not much.”

“Cool,” Stiles should probably leave it at that, considering Derek obviously isn't much of a conversationalist. She's quiet for a moment, “are you like, in college or did you not go? Wait, how old are you? I mean, you're obviously older than me. I think. Is this your car?”

Her gaze stays on his face and sees the slight upturn to his lips, he keeps his eyes on the road,“just finished. 21. Sort of.”

“Oh, dude! What did you study? Where did you study? I didn't realise we were that close in age, makes sense. What do you mean sort of? Did you steal it? Oh my god are you a criminal? You do realise my dad is the sheriff, right?   
You totally look like you could be a criminal.”

Derek looks at her then. The look is so full of incredulity and bewilderment that Stiles double-takes.

“No way,” Stiles gapes at him. “You're a criminal? An actual criminal?”

“Stiles,” he says, and weirdly it feels like he's said it thousands of times before, “are you actually asking me that right now?”

“Derek,” she responds, adopting his tone, “are you actually not denying that right now?”

His eyebrows are raised, and he huffs a smile as he turns back to the road, “Architecture, Columbia, it's Laura's, but she's away at the moment.”

Stiles narrows her eyes, “does she know you're using it?”

“Does she need to?”

“Bro, that is some sketchy shit!”

“Right.”

“You're terrible at this.“

“Sorry,” and finally, like the Sun emerging from the clouds, he breaks into a grin. A grin that reveals... Adorably dorky bunny teeth.

Stiles feels a flush spread across her cheeks. That's unexpected.

“Left here, right?”

“Huh?” Stiles is drawn out of her reverie, “oh, yeah, right. I mean left. Yeah that one. How did you know?”  
He shrugs, ever the mystery. 

The silences don't exactly feel awkward, which is a strange feeling for Stiles. Often, she finds herself desperate to fill up the gaps. It's kind of comfortable to let the conversation fade away, so Stiles lets it and watches the forest pass by out of the window.

It feels like they've been driving forever, passing infinite trees, until she feels like she recognises a certain part of the road. Now, Stiles has lived in Beacon Hills all her life, and knows most of it pretty well, but this area feels... significant.

There's something odd about it, too. Like the colours aren't quite right, but that's not it. The edges of the road are blurred and warped, but that's not quite it either. 

And then she notices two condensed patches of light lurking between two trees, like eyes, watching. She leans closer to the window, her breath caught.

Everything seems a little fuzzy and unfocused, so she's not really sure if her eyes are playing tricks on her when she sees two clawed hands reach out of the woods. The body that follows is grotesque and twisted, and it doesn't stop moving.

Its gait is uneven and it lumbers out of the treeline and towards her.

“Stiles,” it says.

She jerks away from the window with a strangled gasp and turns to see-

“Derek?” she asks, breathless. He's staring at her.

“We're here.”

She turns back to the window to see her own driveway, “oh. I must have drifted off.”

“What?”

“It's been a crazy morning, I must have fallen asleep.”

“You weren't-” he seems to be inspecting her face, “never mind. Are you okay?”

“Just had a weird dream, probably still in shock from earlier. Saw some kind of monster, how stupid, right? It's like wow Stiles act your age, you're old enough to get married, own a gun, go to prison but still you let your imagination run away with you.”

Derek blinks, “monster?”

“Yeah, it made me swerve off the road, I'm probably just sleep deprived.”

“Probably.”

“Anyway, thanks for the lift, Der. Catch you around some time,” she slipped out of the car and into the house, only fumbling with the keys slightly on her way, before throwing herself down on the other side of the door, her cheeks burning. “Der? Jesus, Stiles.”

She sinks down further, feeling shaky and drained, but she waits until she hears the car pull away before she relaxes. Honestly, she's not convinced that she was just imagining things. Whilst she does have a particularly lively imagination, she's never been so caught up in it that's she's physically reacted. Well... At least not when she's driving. And seriously, the lengths she had to go to to prove to her dad that she wouldn't get distracted on the road.

“Comfortable?” a warm, familiar figure slides down beside her, holding a mug out towards her.

“Ha, yeah. There's just something about this welcome mat that does it for me, you know? Thanks,” she takes the drink from her dad and sips, it's hot milk with honey. She snorts softly, she hasn't had it in years.

He's still in his uniform. “Wanna tell me what's going on?”

Stiles drags her injured hand down her face, “there's nothing. Probably just tired.”

He huffs, but is quiet for a moment. She takes another sip. “I would have preferred it if you had called me first. Straight away.”

“I lost my phone,” she answers, eyes tracing the threads pulling away from the carpet at the bottom of the stairs. “Didn't have your number.”

This time John snorts, “oh please. You know my number back to front, inside out.”

Stiles opens her mouth to retort but what comes out is, “oh shit. My jeep.”

Beside her, her dad rolls his eyes, “don't worry. Sent the new guy after it.”

“New guy?” Stiles' eyebrows raise. She is usually the first to know about the goings on in the station. “Speaking of, what are you doing home? What time is it?”

“Yes, new guy. Probably wasn't too impressed with that job, but definitely too polite to complain. It's just past midday, but some people were worried about the station's most infamous menace.”

“Oh please, I'm an angel and you know it.” She finishes her drink in a gulp and rolls her head back against the door, “guessing I don't have to go into school now?”

“Would be a bit pointless now, but I expect you to spend the rest of the day catching up on what you missed.”

Stiles laughs as she stands and offers a hand to John, “right. Of course.” 

Once he's up she begins to saunter upstairs.

“I'm not joking.”

“Sure.”

She flashes a grin over her shoulder to where John is shaking his head, fond exasperation written across his lined features.

“I'm going back to work soon and probably won't be back until pretty late.”

“Yessir. I'm going to sleep for a bit, then I'll get right on top of all that work, don't you worry.”

 

“Scott, Scotty, Scottster, Scotterick, Hotty McCall, Scotty McHotty, my man, my brother, my son!”

“That sounds pretty incestuous, Stiles, my sister, my mother?”

Stiles grins, “I just feel like we have such a unique bond, you know?”

“Are you drunk?”

“Nope,” she pops the 'p', sliding her chair towards her bookshelf, scanning for something she doesn't see and then back to her laptop.

“Are you going to tell me why you're calling and on your landline?”

“There'd be no fun in that,” she pouts, typing some bullshit about inflation one-handed into a word document.  
“  
You didn't come into school, what happened?”

“Ugh you know, the usual. Got picked up in the middle of the preserve by some hunk with the jawline of a Greek god. Maybe even Adonis-level. Except I'm hoping he wasn't the product of inbreeding. Or born out of a tree.”

“I wasn't aware there was anyone of that level in this town, I mean besides Jackson and well, me.”

“Oh Scotty, this guy is so far out of Jackass Shittemore's league that they're not even in the same dimension. And shall I pretend you didn't just say that that dickwad is actually attractive?”

“Well he is attractive. And he's not actually that bad.”

“Oh yes, I forgot you two were best friends now,” she rolls her eyes and picks up a pen, biting the lid off to highlight a section in her textbook.

“Stiles-”

She blows the lid up into the air and catches it as it comes down, “bro, chill. I was joking. I hope you two are very happy together. Anyways, I might as well tell you why I actually called.”

“Yeah, sure, go ahead.”

“Basically I have something I want to check out, so... Oh I think someone's at the door, I'll be back in a moment, don't go anywhere, darling!”

Stiles has 'narrowly avoiding full-on falling' down the stairs down to an art form, and she reaches the front door in record time, swinging it open without checking.

She doesn't recognise the man, but he's pretty young, and dressed in a beige uniform.

“Well, hello there, officer.”

He doesn't blush or even look uncomfortable, just raises an eyebrow, which Stiles finds extremely disappointing.

“Are you Stiles?” he asks in a ridiculously pleasant voice.

“I am indeed, are you the new guy?”

He cracks a smile, “I am indeed.”

She throws glances to the side and juts her chin out expectantly, “well aren't you going to introduce yourself, monsieur?”

Now he laughs, and offers his hand, “Jordan Parrish.”

She shakes his hand firmly, “well, Jordan Parrish, I believe you have something for me.” Stiles peers over the officer's shoulder and spots her jeep on the drive, a satisfied warmth spreads through her belly. “Ah, that's my boy.”

Parrish's smile turns baffled, “I'm sorry, what?”

She barely spares him a glance, “Roscoe. Is he okay? Had quite the spin earlier.”

“Oh,” he laughs again, clear like a bell, “I sorted your tyre for you. Sorry I'm a bit late. Something I noticed, though, was that the door was wide open and the keys just on the ground. Leave in a hurry, did you?”

“Something like that,” she answers absently, “well, thank you for your work here, officer, if you don't mind-”

“Your keys.”

“Huh?”

“I still have your keys.”

“Oh, right,” he drops them into her hand, his eyes lingering on the brace strapped to her fingers, “good evening.”

She shuts the door and races back upstairs, not realising until she's back in her seat that he probably has no way of getting back to the station. Oh well, not her problem. She's never claimed to be a good person.

“Still there, buddy?”

“Yup. Who was it?”

“No one important. Where was I?”

Scott hums on the other end of the line, “you want to check something out.”

“Ah, yes, of course. Do you trust me, my love?”

There's a heavy exhale of air, “well...”

“Okay, bad question. But if I want to do something, will you come with?”

“That depends what it is...”

“Wow, ever heard of unconditional friendship? Anyway, I'll pick you up about an hour, okay?”

“I don't know, Stiles, it's already getting kind of dark out.”

“Gee, your sense of adventure astounds me.”

“Okay, whatever, just call me and I'll sneak out.”

“It's not even that late! But sure, whatever. See you later, munchkin.”

“Later, Stiles.”

Stiles sits back in her chair and reaches her arms forward to crack her fingers. The following explosion of pain throws off her balance enough for her to tip her chair over.

She decides she might as well just lie on the floor while she gets her breath back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's funny bc where i'm from a 'preserve' is like jam  
> i'm trying to do americanised english mostly tho (except my spelling obvs)  
> anyways let me know what you think   
> muchas gracias for readingggg  
> and all the comments from the first chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how sporadic is too sporadic in updating?  
> is this too soon?  
> idk  
> enjoy

“Okay,” Scott announces as he climbs into the passenger seat beside Stiles, “so mom's watching reruns of The Wire so she shouldn't notice I'm gone for another few hours but, what are we actually even doing, Stiles?” 

Stiles pulls away from the curb and starts to drive, “I need to check something out, okay?”

“Yeah, you mentioned. But specifically?”

Scott's eyes are wide and earnest, she sighs, “there was something there.”

“Something like what? You said it was watching you.”

“I don't know, a creature.”

“A creature like... A mountain lion?”

“I don't know.”

“Did you see it?”

“Yes- No. Sort of? It sort of lunged for me, and I just ran because hey what else could I do.”

“But you want to go searching for the thing you were running from?”

“Yes.”

“So what do we do if we find it?”

“Huh. I didn't even think about that.”

“Woah, dude, should you be driving with your hand like that?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, well your mom didn't say I couldn't,” Stiles thinks for a moment before adding, “although it was possibly implied.”

“Stiles,” Scott whines.

“It's fine, I'm fine!” she sucks her teeth, “I'll let you drive us home as an escape plan though.”

She gets the feeling that Scott is just humouring her, that he doesn't believe that she saw anything. 

But she can sympathise, she's not completely sure either. They soon arrive at the spot where she  
had the accident earlier that day.

“Okay I'm going to pull in here, remember where we parked, yeah, mi guapo?”

“Stiles, we're in the middle of nowhere.”

“I'm aware of that, Scott. Did you bring a torch?”

“Did you ask me to?”

“I didn't? Oh, never mind, do you have your phone, at least? Fuck knows where mine is.”

Stiles crosses the road, making for the treeline that the creature appeared from, she doesn't look back but instinctively knows that Scott is hot on her heels, dutiful like a puppy. The air is much cooler now, and she's hoping her red hoodie will keep her warm enough, having changed out of the Hales' clothing and into some more characteristic clothing – a graphic t-shirt with skinny jeans.

They walk for a good twenty minutes, deeper into the woods. The pace Stiles has set is fast enough for her to not feel too restless but steady enough to appease Scott's asthmatic tendencies. The light from Scott's phone is pretty pathetic and definitely not enough for both of them to see their way, so Stiles picks out the path and Scott follows blindly.

But when they reach a clearing, Stiles draws to an abrupt stop, causing Scott to crash into her back. 

In the centre of the clearing, a gargantuan tree trunk is captured in the moonlight. Stiles feels a shiver rake at her spine.

“I don't think we should be here,” Scott whispers, his breath tickling her ear. She swallows but is too absorbed to respond.

She takes a few steps forward, the only sound seems to be her feet rustling the leaves. She feels Scott lay his hand on her shoulder, his voice firmer but just as quiet when he speaks her name.

She shrugs him off and stumbles slightly further forward.

It's like the stump is an energy source, pulsing and alive. Well, as alive as a dead tree can be, at least.

“Sti-” her name is cut off by a surprised gargle, and Stiles is brought out of her trance, whipping round in time to see Scott thrown to the ground by some shadowy, hulking shape.

“Oh my g- Scott!” Stiles shrieks, her voice is husky, as if she hasn't spoken in a long time. She races towards him, reaching the creature in long bounds. She digs her hands into its matted fur, ignoring the sharp, grating spark of pain in her fingers, and tears it away from her friend. It rolls onto the ground and swings round to roar in her face.

And, by pure instinct, Stiles roars right back, a hoarse, desperate sound that grows from her belly and tears from her throat.

It's bigger than she is. Taller, broader. It has claws, teeth, muscle, but it pauses and their eyes lock. 

Bright feral blue against burning amber.

And then it's gone, tearing away through the trees and out of earshot. 

Stiles is frozen for a moment, adrenaline pumping through her as she stares at the empty space the creature had inhabited.

But then she hears a groan below her, “oh my god. What the hell was that.”

“Scott, holy shit. Are you okay?” She kneels down and helps him sit up.

He suddenly clutches at his side, “oh shit. That doesn't feel good.”

Scott's hoodie and shirt are jagged and torn and even in the minimal light cast by his phone on the ground beside him, Stiles can see the dark smears of blood that stain his clothes.

“I need to call an ambulance. Holy shit but my dad can't know I'm here. Fuck Scott, I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry, why are we even out here. What the fuck do I do. Oh my god.”

“Stiles, it doesn't hurt right now, okay. So while I'm still in shock, we should get out of here. Although you might have to drive, sorry about ruining the plan.”

“Okay. Okay, that sounds good, let's do that.” 

Stiles leans forward and puts her arm around Scott's back, pulling his arm around her shoulders, they count together and she levers him up, swooping down to collect his phone and pocketing it before they begin to pick their way back through the darkness.

“This was such a bad idea, Scott. Oh my god. You're bleeding out.”

Stiles has never been so distracted whilst driving in her life. Scott is slumped in the seat next to her, his face ashen and clammy with a cold sweat.

“I'm fine, Stiles, just take me home, we have loads of medical shit that I can-” he groans as the car goes over a pothole.

“You're so obviously not fine, Scott!” She can't help letting panic colour her tone. “Oh shit, I have an idea. It's the worst idea ever, but it will have to do.”

“What?”

“Sh, it's fine Scotty. Just focus on not getting blood in my jeep.”

Scott huffs a weak laugh.

“I'm not joking. Okay if I'm remembering correctly, it should be this turning here.” The tyres creak as they go slightly offroad onto a gravel path. Stiles prays silently that she's got the right turning.

 

As Stiles pulls into the house, she is greeted by a shadowy silhouette.

Stiles' parking is hasty and messy, but she throws herself out of the car.

“I- I'm sorry, I can't take him to hospital, his mom- please help him,” she gasps, her body shaking as her adrenaline boost wears off.

Talia Hale's expression is unreadable, at least to Stiles who for the nth time that day feels exhausted to the point of despair. The older woman says nothing but more people emerge from the house and she moves to the car, opening the door and catching Scott as he falls out like a ragdoll.

Stiles' brings her hands to her mouth, trying to slow down her gulping breaths.

And then there's a figure in front of her, guiding her inside after Scott.

But he disappears elsewhere in the house, and Stiles doesn't know how to find him. Her whole being is heavy with guilt and fear, but she's still being guided by the warm, constant presence until she's sat on the sofa she had perched on earlier that day.

Someone sits opposite her on the coffee table which isn't a seat and in a house like this you can't take the furniture for granted like that, she feels a hysterical laugh begin to bubble out of her as she listens to her own thought process.

Finally she looks up at her companion. It's Derek. He's frowning.

She tries to swallow but it's like choking on twigs. A glass of water is pushed into her hands and she takes a tentative sip without really thinking, then feeling the cool liquid sooth her throat, she gulps down the rest of the glass.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers when she feels like she can speak again, she daren't meet his eyes. “Is he-”

“What happened?”

Stiles' gaze wanders until she feels Derek's large warm hands on hers, and she blinks, startled.

“I was being stupid,” she says, levelling her tone and pulling her hands away. “I was being stupid and I thought I could figure this all out on my own. Except no, not really on my own, because where there's a Stiles, there's a Scott. And now he's like this because of me. That's what fucking happened.”

“Stiles,” Derek says, and no, he's being too gentle. He's handling her like she's glass and she's not fucking glass. She glares at him. “What happened to Scott?”

“It attacked him. I needed to know what it was, but I didn't have a plan. And-”

“What attacked him?”

“The wo- I don't know.”

“The what?”

“I said I don't know.”

“You started to say something,” he prompts so, so carefully.

“There are no wolves in California,” she snaps. She looks down at her hands, suddenly realising how much her fingers are aching. 

But she recoils when she sees the blood. There's blood on her wrists, her palms, between her fingers. It's Scott's, she knows that, but she also knows that not all of it is. Her nails are short, but she can see the grime and fur and dark, congealed blood caught behind them.

Someone enters the room, and Stiles is aware of Derek holding a silent conversation with them.

She absently wipes at her cheek and shit. How many times has she done that? How much blood is on her face?

“Stiles,” it's Talia.

“Yeah?” God, she sounds pathetic. All bark and no bite.

“Why don't you get cleaned up while we sort Scott out.”

“Can I see him first?”

Talia exchanges a worried glance with her son, “I don't think now is a good time. I can promise you he's going to be okay, though.”

Stiles closes her eyes and takes a deep breath. In for four, out for four. When she opens them, the Hales' eyes seem to be filled with even more concern. 

“Whatever you say,” she whispers, and stands. Her legs seem to have lost all their strength, though, as she's caught by Derek just as her knees buckle.

She pushes away from him immediately and makes her own way towards Talia's extended hand. She doesn't take it but it comes around her shoulders as she passes anyway.

They pause in the doorway as Talia momentarily tosses her gaze to Derek, “don't disturb Cora, but find some things for Stiles and her friend to wear.”

He nods and wordlessly slips through another door into a part of the house that Stiles hasn't seen before.

“Well, when I said you could come by anytime, I wasn't expecting you back quite so soon.”

“I didn't know where else I could go.”

Talia's smile is sad but fond, and her voice is unbearably soft, “you're always welcome here.” She brushes a strand of Stiles' hair away from her face, “look at the state of you! Come on, you're lucky my skilled friend was nearby to help your Scott out. He'll be fine, I promise. Would you like me to help you clean yourself up? I doubt you'll manage much with your hand like that.”

Stiles swallows, getting the feeling that she would struggle without the help, and shrugs.

“Okay honey,” and she's whisked away to the bathroom – a different one from before. This one is connected to a room with a large double bed, decorated with deep reddish tones. Stiles supposes this is the master bedroom. The bathroom has a wide, deep bath as well as a shower cubicle. Huh, money really does make all the difference.

Talia sweeps over and turns the tap on full throttle, tendrils of steam almost immediately begin to curl away from the water.

Stiles undresses, strangely not self-conscious around this woman she's barely known for a day, and allows herself to be guided to the bath. She dips her toe in, and frowns.

“Is it too hot, darling?” Talia asks, but Stiles just shakes her head and steps in. The temperature is glorious, just the right side of too hot. Once she is engulfed in the water, she dunks her head under. She stays under, scrunching her eyes tight and and holding her breath until her lungs burn, her hair fanning our around her.

She breaks the surface, and slicks her hair back, hands rubbing the water away from her eyes. She realises belatedly that she's got her splint wet, but doesn't really care.

She feels Talia's fingers rake through her hair, gently teasing out the worst of the tangles. It's like the water is sapping away the aches from her joints and muscles, and even her broken finger doesn't hurt quite so much.

Stiles allows Talia to wash her hair for her, but is grateful when she is handed some soap and can scrub at the grime building up on her skin. She works quickly, eager to see Scott.

Soon, Talia is giving her a hand out of the bath and pulling the plug. She wraps a big towel around Stiles and rubs at her shoulders, so strongly reminiscent of-

Stiles bites her lip.

“Everything okay, sweetheart?”

Stiles nods, but she's not completely sure.

Talia opens her mouth to reply, but reads the girl's expression and retreats, leaving Stiles to dry off. She steps into the bedroom with the towel wrapped around her like a dress and spots some clothes on the bed that weren't there before.

She slips her own underwear back on and then climbs into the maroon sweater, pleasantly surprised to find thumb-holes, and then the sweatpants, tying them tight around her hips.

All she wants is to find Scott and go back to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for readinnn  
> i always have this slight concern that i identify personality-wise more with stiles (a lot of people do, i reckon?) but i like to see stiles from derek's perspective so it's like do i write as stiles or as derek
> 
> anyways  
> i used some pretty direct quotes from the pilot episode of teen wolf, but i have changed them up a bit  
> obvs i don't own the originals


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tadah  
> new chapter  
> yay

Scott's eyes are closed and he's completely limp. 

But, the waxiness of his complexion is all but gone and his breathing is even.

Stiles looks around, it's a pretty non-descript room, just general chic décor. Probably a guest room.

The man leaning over Scott to his take his temperature is someone Stiles recognises. “You're a vet,” she blurts, staring at him.

Doctor Alan Deaton turns, “that is correct, Miss Stilinski. I'm sorry I'm not more qualified for the job.”

“I don't care. Thank you. Is he okay?”

He nods, “he's just sleeping now. Healing is tiring work. I'll leave now.”

Stiles watches him go with narrowed eyes, but as soon as he disappears around the corner, she crawls into the bed beside her best friend and curls up.

 

“Stiles,” a voice near Stiles' head whispers, “Stiles!”

She cracks an eye open, and sits bolt upright as soon as she realises where she is, “Scott! Are you okay?” He nods and sits up a little, but she pushes at his chest, “no, you'll hurt yourself.”

“Honestly, I feel fine, Stiles,” he smiles his crooked smile. He pats at the bandages on his side, and then goes for a more confident feel when he discovers no pain at all. Immediately he starts to pull the gauze away.

“Scott!” Stiles reprimands, “what are you- what the fuck.”

The skin is smooth. As if nothing has happened.

Their wide-eyed gazes meet.

Stiles reaches out and brushes her fingers over his ribs, mind whirring, “you don't think...”

“What?”

“You were bit, Scott.”

“Yeah, and?” 

“I think I've heard of this. Heightened healing, you know. It's a very specific kind of infection.”

“What? Seriously?”

“Yeah,” Stiles swallows. She's not sure if she's joking. “Yeah, I think it's called lycanthropy.”

“Oh shit, what is that? Is it bad?”

Unfortunately for Scott, even if the cogs in her brain are working at full throttle to figure this out, she can't help teasing him a little, “oh yeah. The worst. Only once a month, though.”

“Once a-”

“Yeah. On the night of the-” she pales, realisation coming over her, “the full moon.”

“Stiles! There could be something seriously wrong with me!” 

Stiles' mouth hangs slightly open, she's speechless. She blinks down at the empty space where there should be stitches, missing chunks of skin, blood.

“Why- Why don't you look like you're joking anymore?” 

“Scott, didn't you notice? When we found the tree-stump last night.”

“I just saw you going bat-shit or something, I don't know.”

“Scott, it was a full moon last night. You were bitten. Your bite miraculously healed. Are you  
seriously not seeing this right now?”

“What's that got to do with the tree-stump?”

“I don't know, but there's definitely something. Didn't you feel it?”

“Feel what?”

“Like you were being drawn towards it, like-”

“I see you're already awake, good morning,” Talia declares brightly as she sweeps into the room. Stiles immediately slaps Scott's bandages down and tugs his shirt back into place, hiding the movement with the duvet. “You're looking better, Scott. Oh, sorry, I haven't introduced myself, have I. I'm Talia Hale, you're Melissa McCall's son if I'm not mistaken?”

“Uh, yeah,” Scott throws a confused glance at Stiles. “Thanks for uh- Oh shit! I mean- Sugar! Mom! She must be going crazy!”

Stiles rolls her eyes at his censoring until she realises- “oh titwank, my dad!”

 

“I- I can't believe this Stiles,” John Stilinski pinches the bridge of his nose, there's a headache straining at his temples and he is so frustrated that he just wants to lie down in dark room forever until at least next year. “I thought we were over this this. I thought that you'd have one last quiet year before you went off to wherever you're going, and I thought you would show me how much you've grown up. I can't believe how irresponsible you are. You're grounded, Stiles.”

“But d-” 

“No Stiles, I don't want to hear it. As long as you live under my roof, you will follow my rules.  
Understood?”

“Da-” Stiles feels small and stupid. She sits on a sofa whilst her dad stands in front of her, it feels like he can barely look at her.

“And I'm confiscating your jeep.”

“But I-”

“Parrish will take you to and from school.”

“Dad,” Stiles raises her voice, her temper wearing thin, “you can't do that. At least not to Parrish. I don't need a babysitter.”

“Well apparently you do. You disappear twice in one day, and I know the first was an accident but to intentionally go out and then get someone hurt! Stiles, I thought you were smarter than this.”

And that- That stings. Stiles is so sick of disappointing her dad, she really is, but it seems to be her greatest talent. Shame pricks at her eyes.

“I-” this time, Stiles cuts herself off, choked. “Okay. Can we- Can we talk about this later?”

They're still at the Hale house, with Talia having called Melissa and John. It's early, only a little past 7am, and whilst Stiles is being scolded in an empty room, she gets the feeling her conversation isn't as private as she'd like.

Stiles' cheeks are hot with humiliation as she exits the room, her dad watches her go wordlessly. She passes various rooms with various people inside, but doesn't stop until she's out of the house and on the edge of the woods. There are too many thoughts in her head, too many things going on.

She throws herself down with a sigh, sitting cross-legged, and runs her fingers through the grass. She knows she should be heading home with her dad, getting ready for school, but it feels so irrelevant, much moreso than before. It's not where she wants to be, especially now that there is definitely some shit going on out in the woods.

Speaking of, Stiles raises her eyeline, searching the trees as if something would be there.

A weight drops beside her and she jumps, automatically jerking away.

“Oh,” she says once she registers who it is. “Look, I don't want to hear it. I know he's just worried about me, and let's be honest I deserve everything he said. He should be disappointed in me, I mean what was I thinking? And coming here instead of going to the hospital? Jesus, it's like I have no conception of the real world. Scott could have died, you know? I mean, of course you know, but it's Scott, and I'm pretty sure the whole world would go to complete shit without him around. He is a literal ray of sunshine.”

“Uh-”

“He was right, he said we shouldn't be there, but I just don't know when to let things go,” she throws herself backwards. Lying in the grass like this, she feels weightless. All she can see is the sky.

She hears a thud as Derek also lays back beside her.

“You know,” he says, “I wasn't going to say that. And evidently you didn't need me to, anyway.”

“So, why are you here?”

“Well this is my house.”

Stiles groans, “you know what I mean.”

“Do I need a reason?”

“Yes.”

“How about some smart-ass teenager is sulking in my garden and my mom thinks I need more friends.”

“Did she send you out here?”

“Nah. I kind of think I need more friends too.”

Stiles' heart does something funny in her chest, “and you think some smart-ass sulky teenager is going to help with that?”

Derek hums non-committally, and Stiles steals a glance at him. His eyes are closed, his hands tucked under his head. The Sun is kissing his cheekbones, his skin glowing as if he is actually Apollo.

And Stiles cannot. She looks away.

“You're a weird guy,” she doesn't mean the sigh to escape her lips with the dig.

She hears him shift, feels his eyes on her, “are you feeling better?”

It's not what she's expecting, and when she finally looks across at him, he's on his side, propped on his elbow and facing her. She mirrors him, narrowing her eyes.

“Honestly, Derek, I do not know. In fact I sort of need to get up and get ready for school, but I kind of look like I ran into a lamppost, which isn't exactly prime condition,” she speaks matter of factly, really unsure of what this guy's game is.

“Your dad's coming,” he says, but doesn't move, just keeps looking at Stiles. She fidgets slightly before his words sink in.

“Wh-”

“Stiles, we're going home, kiddo.”

Stiles' form as she scrambles to her feet is about as graceful as a newborn lamb. 

“Catch you later, Stiles,” he turns to lay on his back again, stretching out and closing his eyes.

 

As Stiles sits at her desk that evening, her pile of catchup work untouched in her bag, it occurs to her that the things that have been happening all connect up. She can't quite think how, but there's something on the tip of her tongue that is making her restless.

To her left on the wall is a noticeboard covered in little things like movie tickets and notes passed between herself and Scott in class. She regards the board for little over a moment, considering, before she stands and begins to clear it, using an empty shoe box as a new home for her memories, insignificant as they are.

The thoughts are overwhelming, so much so that she speeds up, becoming more reckless as she tears down the pieces of paper. She needs to get on with the real work before she burns out.

Soon, with some balls of yarn and a box of pins at her side, she allows her mind to start piecing things together, starting with the beginning.

The preserve, some kind of wolf creature. It chases her, she falls, Derek finds her. The Hales live on the preserve, Cora is in the grade below Stiles, Derek has just finished college, what about his father? She's heard of him, knows he's still around, but hasn't seen him. Talia Hale is the toast of the town, she's well-respected and well-known. On her way home, she dreams of the creature again. Later, she and Scott go to investigate. Cue giant creepy tree and reappearance of wolf creature which bites Scott. Scott's wound has completely healed by morning.

But there's something more, and Stiles can't put her finger on it. It's there, she knows it is. Her eyelids fall shut, a crease forming between her eyebrows. Her fingers begin to drum on the wood of her desk, she manages not to injure her freshly taped fingers, now more accustomed to their lack of dexterity. 

It comes to her in a rush of realisation. It's in the small things, the things that can so easily be overlooked. Derek's nostrils flaring in the woods, reacting to things he can hear that aren't in earshot, sensing people coming and going. So, Derek's a bit odd, what's new?

He's not the only one. Stiles scrambles for her pen as she drops it, needing to write this down before she loses her train of thought.

Talia heard her come out of the bathroom when she'd finished showering, and- That's it. How did she know to be waiting outside her house as Stiles pulled up with Scott?

No. That's stupid. A wealthy family with a house like that in the woods would definitely have super advanced security systems, there was probably an alert or alarm or something.

Stiles scrubs her hands through her hair, there's no lead there, she's overthinking and nothing links up. She's being paranoid.

With a sigh, Stiles steps away from the board. There are crude drawings and scribbled notes connected by red pieces of string, criss-crossing and little more than a mess.

 

“So, do you think you're more of an Alfred or a Jeeves? Or maybe a Geoffrey?”

Parrish throws Stiles a bemused smile.

She rolls her eyes a little too exaggeratedly, “Batman? Jeeves and Wooster? The Fresh Prince of Bel Air?”

“Oh, I see. You're insinuating that I am your chauffeur.”

“Well, butler, actually. But sure, chauffeur works since, you know, you're more about shipping me around than aiding my revenge-fuelled lifestyle, and you're not English enough. Oh wow I just noticed that they're all English. Huh. Do you reckon that's a requirement to become a butler?”

Parrish says nothing, just snorts softly and shakes his head.

“You know, you're kind of-”

“Handsome? I know. For a second there I thought you were going to say young, and then I'd have to correct you and say that I'm-”

“Nah, I was going to say you're kind of a pushover.”

“Oh.”

“C'mon, you must know it. I mean, you're a police officer, not a freaking taxi driver, why are you driving your boss's daughter to school?”

“Maybe I just love being verbally abused by a 16 year old.”

“I'm 18.”

“Same difference, you're in high school.”

“Like you left high school so long ago.”

“As I was saying, I'm actually-”

“And I was saying, is this even in your job description?”

“I'm on patrol, you know.”

Stiles squawks a laugh, “oh my god that is such bullshit and you don't even realise! None of the patrols follow this route.”

“And you would know that because...”

“Because I'm not an idiot. Besides-” Stiles is cut off by the radio blaring noise into the vehicle. Promptly, a voice breaks through informing them of a 911 call not too far from them and asking for any officers in the area.

“Oh shit,” Parrish bites his lip and looks between Stiles and the radio.

She shrugs, “it's on you, big guy. It would be kind of ridiculous not to go just because little ol' me is here.” He does look really torn though, so Stiles decides to be the bigger person, “look. If you make a shortcut down there, you can drop me off on your way to the scene, okay?”

“Okay, but it's your ass on the line if this doesn't work.”

“No, it's my dad's ass on the line. And considering how weak the levels of trust are in my family at the moment, I'm not exactly jumping at the prospect of letting him down again. So turn your sirens on and let's get with it,” she swings her hand up as if she's signalling the start of a drag race.

Ready, set, go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for reading bro  
> lemme know what you think ;)  
> also if there's any tags i should add (bc i can't decide)  
> e.g stiles is an asshole
> 
> until next time darlinks


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hola  
> enjoy  
> also thank you for the comments and kudos and general lurve

Stiles drops her bag at her feet as she clambers over the bench to flop onto the table. Scott nods his greetings, but the other inhabitants barely bat an eyelid, so she closes her eyes and waits for the bell to ring. 

“Stilinski, move out the fucking way.”

“How 'bout no,” she grumbles, snuggling further into the crook of her elbow. A thick wedge of a folder is slammed down by her nose, but Stiles doesn't flinch. She cracks an eye open and squints up at the perpetrator, “play nice.”

“I'm not joking, Stiles, move,” Jackson elbows his way onto the bench beside her, shoving her along and off. She barely catches herself with one hand on the ground and the other on the table, her legs caught underneath.

“What the fuck, Jackson,” Stiles pulls herself back up and grabs at his shirt by the collar, twisting it for a better grip.

“Woah, woah, woah!” A hand rests on her shoulder, and another on Jackson's, Scott leans across the table from his seat beside Allison.

“Oh Scott, hey,” Jackson smirks, his eyes still on Stiles, “you feeling better, buddy?”

Scott frowns, “yeah, dude. Stiles, what are you doing?”

“What does it look like I'm doing, Scott? I'm bonding with my new best friend.”

“Stop making a scene,” Lydia orders absently from the other side of Jackson before continuing her conversation with Allison.

Stiles lets go of Jackson, giving Lydia two thumbs up before slipping out from the bench and gathering her things. She raises an eyebrow at Scott as she turns away, and as is only right, he grabs his bag and follows. Well, not until after he's kissed Allison and bid farewell to the power couple.

“I wish you two would stop fighting.”

“Excuse me, he must be like twice my muscle mass and he's got a good few inches on me, what makes you think that's a fight?”

“He's only messing with you, I don't get why you have to respond so strongly.”

“Oh sweet, sweet boy. How are you so naïve,” Stiles shakes her head with mock sorrow as they weave their way through the corridor. “Anyway, how actually are you? How come you're back in school today?”

“Well there's nothing there so I couldn't really stay off again. But, I, um,” he rubs the back of his neck, “it was a bit overwhelming yesterday.”

“Overwhelming? What was?”

“I don't know, man. My senses went into overload and I- Stiles, what the hell?”

Stiles swiftly takes hold of one of the straps on Scott's backpack and tugs him to the side of the corridor, a corner sheltered between two sets of lockers, “what happened?”

Scott stares at her for a moment before sighing, his palm coming to the back of his neck, “I think I... heard stuff I shouldn't have been able to hear, a baby crying in the house across the street, shit like that, you know? And then it was like... My mom's pager last night when she was downstairs and I was in my room. Stiles, why is your face doing that?”

Slack jawed, Stiles blinks before shaking her head, “let's go to class.”

“But what about-”

“Nah, man. Later.”

 

“Get a move on, you little losers! We don't have all day, and I don't know about you, but suicide runs in the dark don't sound like no tea party in the sun.”

Stiles squints up at Finstock, “Coach, that doesn't even make- never mind. I can't play today.”

“What's that?” 

“I can't pl-”

“Bilinski, is it? Aren't you just a bench-warmer?”

Stiles blinks, before answering drily, “nope. I got promoted to first string last year, remember? And the name's still not Bilinski,” she adds under her breath. She finds it odd that he hasn't put two and two together that her father is the sheriff of the county he lives in. But whatever.

“Right,” Finstock says absently, his eyes returning to the kids filing into the locker rooms, “Greenberg! I see that candy bar and I swear that if it's not gone in the next two seconds you're going to be buying the whole team candy and feeding it to them, is that understood?”

“Coach.”

Finstock appears genuinely surprised to see Stiles still there, “what is it? Why haven't you changed?”

The effort it takes for Stiles not to roll her eyes is almost painful, “I'm going to have to sit out from practise today.”

“Oh yeah? And why would that be? Whittemore! Mahealani! Get over here!”

She sinks back against the wall, exasperated. The boys shuffle out of the locker room in different states of undress, Danny is dressed in his lacrosse gear from the waist down with his shirt unbuttoned and Jackson is just completely topless.

Stiles doesn't even try to suppress the eye-roll this time, and it doesn't matter anyway as she's swiftly ignored by everyone present as they begin to discuss their plans for the day's training. Instead of bothering to wait for anyone's attention, she decides to just give up and join practise anyway. Parrish will work out soon enough where she is. Probably.

 

“You sure you're okay to play, Scott?” Stiles rakes her eyes down his ribs, as if phantom wounds ghost his skin. 

Scott rubs the maroon material, contemplating. “I can always tap out if something starts hurting, I'll be good for now,” his smile is a promise Stiles hopes he'll keep. As long as she's known him, he's tried to do as much as everyone else, as if enthusiasm and positivity could ward off any asthma attacks. Stiles loves his optimism, but he's an idiot for it. He leans in close to murmur, not exactly subtly, in her ear, “besides, if I am some sort of supernatural phenomenon now, maybe there's a little wolfy stamina thrown in the mix.”

“Okay, two things,” Stiles laughs as she pushes him away, “one; we need to practise our inside voices and two; you need to never use the phrase 'wolfy stamina' again.”

“Just me?”

“Well, duh, I'm the one with no brain-to-mouth filter and the v-card to match.”

Scott doesn't react like she's expecting him to, instead his mouth hangs open and his eyes glaze over.

“Thinking of Allison?”

“Yeah,” he breathes, a dopey smile on his stupidly love-struck face.

Stiles snorts, “best get your game on then, McCall.”

When Scott raises a questioning eyebrow, Stiles points up to the bleachers where a dimpled brunette and a green-eyed strawberry blonde are perched like models.

“It must be the most boring thing ever, being a WAG. Remind me to never date an athlete,” they're wrapped up in their coats and scarves whilst she is in shorts, she thinks for a moment before adding, “although, I think I'd prefer sitting there and doing nothing to alternating between freezing and sweating myself to death down here.”

The whistle blows as Scott catches Allison's attention, waving dazedly before smacking Stiles' shoulder and running off to line up. Amazingly, the blow winds her. Scott's never bumped her that hard before, what the hell?

She pegs it on him being distracting and follows after a moment of rolling her shoulders, grimacing.

 

It's as she's leaning against a goal post, ruddy cheeked and out of breath, that Stiles begins to hate Scott a little bit. Okay, maybe hate is a strong word. But looking at him, she is unashamedly jealous of his wolfy stamina because yes, that is definitely what it is.

What it must be.

She's never seen him navigate the field with such agility, nor has she seen him catch so many balls in such a short space of time. 

He's even made a couple of shots. Stiles must be in some kind of nightmare.

His dirt bike's not going to be able to take the weight of his inflated ego.

He's going to become a new Jackson.

She should have seen this coming.

As she laments, she notices someone up on the bleachers, a few seats up from Lydia and Allison, a dark figure. As her gaze lands on them, their eyes locks, as if she's been creeped on for quite a while now.

Stiles squints, and as her vision focuses, she chokes a little in surprise.

“C-” she begins, but is cut off when her attention is diverted.

“What the hell, Lahey, stop fucking around, I didn't even get you that hard,” she hears a raised voice spitting righteously across the field. What a surprise, it's Jackson.

She sees someone kneeling on the ground, and she can't see his face but he seems to be desperate to melt away. Jackson is stood, looming, over him.

Stiles pushes away from the post and jogs over to them, joining them at the same time as Scott and a few of the other team members.

Isaac Lahey's shoulders are heaving, and Stiles can't tell if it's because he's crying, out of breath or-

“Shit,” Scott throws himself to his knees beside him, “hey, Isaac, look at me.”

Wide eyes land on him, red rimmed. His forehead is damp with sweat and his breathing is ragged, like his lungs are trying to choke him. 

“What the hell is going on here?” Coach's voice breaks the crowd apart and he makes his way to the front.

Stiles answers for Scott and Isaac, “he's having a panic attack.”

“Hey, Lahey, is it? You okay, buddy?”

“I think he needs some space,” Stiles steps back a little, the others follow her lead and start to break away from where Isaac has begun to curl in on himself.

“Jesus, it was only a hip-check,” Jackson mutters as he begins to turn away, Stiles doesn't even realise what he's said until there's a hand on his wrist, stopping him from leaving.

Scott says nothing, just glares up at the captain. Stiles' eyes trail from his face to his grip on Jackson's wrist where she swears she sees... Oh shit, yes those are claws. And Scott's eyes aren't their usual chocolate brown, but a glowing yellowish colour. Stiles gapes, open mouthed and stunned. But only momentarily.

“Just fuck off, Jackson,” she tries for intimidating, and hopes that the slight hitch in her voice isn't too noticeable. Thankfully, Jackson's eyes snap to hers and he stares at her for a moment as he pulls his hand away from Scott, shrugging before he stalks off.

A wretched breath from Isaac draws her attention and seems to break Scott from his wolf-out, as he turns back and continues to soothe him through the attack. Stiles turns back to the bleachers, but Cora is gone, so are Allison and Lydia, probably gone to calm Jackson down or something. 

She drags a hand down her face cursing the day she wished more would happen in her life.

Definitely doesn't feel like that day was only a few days ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not much happens but i wanted to get a school scene in ygm  
> it's what i miss about teen wolf these days  
> the bit where they're TEENS  
> also the humour... the first few eps of 5b and most of 5a have been waaaay too dramatic (like cool it w the soap opera cuts)  
> can't not watch it though
> 
> thanks for readin   
> lemme know what you think <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> enjoy mis hijos  
> i apologise for my horrific and frequent use of the spanish language  
> i do not know why i do it  
> i got an a at gcse but i only remember the little things so there you go  
> yay education

Stiles is drumming her fingers on her thighs, getting pretty into it, her head bobbing along with the imaginary beat.

She's waiting to get picked up, leaning against a wall against the school with her kit and school bag resting against her leg. It's on the brink of getting dark, and the lights are already warming up, casting a yellow haze on the greyness of the early twilight. 

There are other people about, joking and laughing with one another as they head to their cars and Stiles acknowledges a couple of goodbyes absently. She misses her jeep already.

“So is Deputy Burning going to be picking you up too, Stilinski?” asks a husky, feminine voice from beside her.

“Unfortunately,” Stiles sighs, “how about you, Martin? Jackson driving you home?”

She's not sure where Scott is, probably with Isaac still. Or Allison. Or potentially both.

“I haven't seen him since earlier,” Lydia answers with a flick of her hair. “So, who is he?”

Stiles presumes, from the vague answer and slight change of subject, that Lydia doesn't want to talk about her on/off boyfriend. Stiles is absolutely a-ok with this.

“Jordan Parrish, he's new, obviously. Also a complete suck up to my dad.”

“I wonder what else he sucks up,” Lydia purses her lips and narrows her eyes.

Stiles splutters, “well, I hadn't really stopped to ask.”

“Do let me know when you know.”

“Ew. He's like thirty.”

Stiles does not expect it, at all, but Lydia grins at her then. It's impish and there's a glint in her eye, and weirdly, Stiles suddenly warms up to her a little. There's always been a slight hostility between them, although Stiles isn't sure if that's completely accurate. She's pretty sure Lydia never even knew she existed before, and it's hard to be hostile to someone who isn't on your radar. Although, Lydia would be capable of that, she supposes.

They were partners in AP History once, though.

A black car pulls up beside them then, it's a total muscle car with super dark tinted windows, probably something Lydia would be into.

Stiles turns raised eyebrows to her companion, “this your ride?”

Before Lydia can answer, the driver door opens and... Derek Hale steps out.

There's a moment where Stiles might feel like face-palming as she wonders how she didn't recognise the Camaro. But then Derek is flashing them both a disturbingly charming smile. It's almost wolfish.  
Stiles can't help the stiffness that takes a hold of her for that second, the slightly sick feeling in her gut.

He's like Scott. 

She's not sure if she's scared. Cautious, perhaps. Wary.

“Have you seen Cora? I'm supposed to be picking her up,” he says pleasantly.

“Uh, I think I saw her at practise earlier but... Not since then,” she doesn't know if she should make eye contact, she can feel his gaze on her.

“Cora Hale?” asks Lydia, glancing between the two of them, obviously not as unobservant as she likes people to think.

Derek turns to her, “yeah.”

“Oh look,” Stiles says, louder than necessary, deciding she needs more time to think, “there's the cruiser. Lydia, need a ride?”

“Stiles, my house isn't even a little bit on the way to yours,” Lydia frowns.

“Oh, so it isn't.”

“I could drop you home if you're looking for a lift,” dammit, Derek. 

Lydia's smile is all eyelashes and cream. Ugh.

The cruiser pulls up beside Camaro and Parrish hops out, “I got your text, you good to go?”

“Uh,” Stiles looks between the three people around her, biting her lip, “um.”

“Is something wrong?” Parrish inches forward a little.

Beside her, Lydia is appraising the deputy like he's a precious gem, “actually Stiles, I needed to check up on that homework with you, do you mind if I drop round for a bit?”

Well that's bullshit, Lydia Martin never needs to check up on homework with anyone, “uh, sure. If it's okay with Jeeves over here.”

“Still not your butler, but, yeah of course.”

Lydia thanks Derek for his offer and gracefully places herself in the front seat of the cruiser. 

“Do you need a hand finding her?” Stiles offers as she stands with a hand on the roof of her ride.

“No, it's fine, she's on her way,” Derek's smile is more amused than crowd-pleasing now, as if he recognises her trying to work him out. Stiles turns to get into the car but hesitates as Derek speaks again, “oh and my mom wanted to invite you and Scott to dinner Friday night.”

“Oh, uh, I'm grounded so-” Stiles flails momentarily, “I'll have to ask my dad but, I'll let you know. Thanks.”

“Friday, then.”

“Friday,” she confirms.

“Meaning tomorrow.”

“Yes, tomorrow is- shit! Tomorrow is Friday!”

“I've heard Friday often comes after Thursday.”

Stiles cuts a dry glare in his direction before climbing the rest of the way into the back of the cruiser. Looks she won't be able to ask about the emergency this morning, at least not until Lydia's out of the way.

She leans back against the head rest, exposing her pale throat.

Out the corner of her eye, she sees Derek watching her as the cruiser pulls away, only looking away when Cora turns up.

 

“Stiles, I've got to work tonight so- Oh, Lydia, is it?”

“Yeah, she wanted to go over some homework with me,” Stiles explains to her father, knowing that being grounded probably means no visitors but she figures anything related to school should be fine. 

“I just wanted to make sure she's caught up in the classes she's missed,” Lydia smiles, “after all, I want some decent competition for valedictorian.”

“Well, you girls go on up then. I'm afraid we haven't got much in refreshment-wise, but stay as long as you like.”

“Thank you, Sheriff,” Lydia gracefully heads up the stairs first, already knowing which room is Stiles'.

When she's gone, John raises an eyebrow at his daughter, “Lydia Martin?”

“We're friends,” Stiles answers somewhat defensively.

“Okay!” He raises his hands in surrender, “you can use the jeep to drive her home, but I don't want it to be too late.”

“Stop acting like she's some kind of romantic conquest!”

“Isn't she?”

“God, dad!” Stiles groans, “stop.”

“Okay, well, I'll be off now, make sure you eat properly,” he presses a kiss to her forehead as he passes her to open the front door.

“Wait, dad-” Stiles catches the door in her hand, “um.”

“Stiles, I've really got to go, can't this wait until later?”

“Tomorrow! It's Friday tomorrow.”

John wipes a hand across his brow, squinting at his daughter. She's almost the same height as he is, and it startles him to see her growing up so fast, looking more and more like Claudia with every day. Some of it is just Stiles, he never could have predicted how strong her personality would become and now he knows he never should have expected anything less from her. And of course there are some things he has learned to deal with, having to adapt to be the parent she needs. 

“I mean- Talia Hale has invited me to dinner. Tomorrow night. And Scott. And I know I'm grounded so it's totally fine if I can't and-”

“Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“I only grounded you so I would know where you are, and to punish you a little. Of course you can go, especially if Talia's invited you.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, kiddo. Now let me go.”

“See you later, dad. Stay safe,” Stiles darts up the stairs, not waiting for his reply, and into her room where she finds Lydia leaning against the edge of the desk. The chair is piled with clothes, and the unmade bed is heaped with books and papers. Her wall is mess of pictures, string and her scrawled ideas. Stiles feels her cheeks warm, “sorry.”

“What's going on, Stiles?” Lydia's lips are pursed and it feels like she's staring into Stiles' soul. Stiles wouldn't put it past her.

“Regarding...”

“For one, turning up to school looking like that, and then McCall acting weird, your police escort and,” Lydia's green eyes narrow with curiosity, “Derek Hale.”

“What makes you think any of those things are related?” Stiles clears the clothes from the chair, shoving them into her wardrobe, offering the seat to Lydia. She takes it and watches as Stiles starts to make herself a space on the bed to sit with her legs crossed, facing her guest.

Lydia makes a noise of hurt, “really, Stiles? Don't insult my intelligence. Or yours.”

“I don't know where you've gotten this idea that I'm smart from,” she plays with strand of hair, twiddling it and twisting it through her fingers.

“Stiles, what do you know about the supernatural?”

 

“So what did you say to that?”

“I panicked! Scott, literally, it was the scariest thing in my life. I think I just said something about Twilight and then asked if she wanted an orange.”

“Smooth,” Stiles can practically hear Scott's crooked smile through the phone. “Is that what I am?”

“What?”

“Supernatural?” His voice is soft, like he doesn't want it to be true, but they both know it is.

“Scott,” Stiles sighs.

“I don't want this, Stiles.”

“I know. But we've been invited to the Hale house tomorrow, so I think we'll be getting some answers.”

“The Hales?” He sounds genuinely surprised, “why would they have answers?”

“I have a theory. Hear me out. It's the only thing that seems to make sense, except-” she screws her eyes shut, “it doesn't really make sense.”

“Right...”

“I think the Hales are werewolves,” she gushes in an exhale.

“Werewolves? Stiles, what the hell are you on?”

“Scott, don't go all non-believer on me. What do you think you are?”

“A slightly enhanced human?”

Stiles coughs out a surprised laugh, “of course.”

“But seriously, Stiles.”

“Look, how about we stop trying to figure this out ourselves and just wait until tomorrow. You can make it, right?”

“Well I was hoping to go out with Allison-”

“No, Scott. I'm sorry, bro, but now really isn't the time for that.”

“Right. Whatever.”

“Don't go all sulky on me, Scott McCall. This is all for you. Think of it as a path of self-discovery.”

“Yeah,” his voice is bland, and Stiles genuinely feels terrible.

It is, after all, her fault.

 

Stiles is dawdling to class, taking her time. She's already running late from refusing to leave the cruiser until Parrish gave her an answer about the call from the day before.

All she'd gotten was “animal attack” out of him before he had threatened to call her dad.

And now, the only thing on her mind is just that.

She's so lost in her thoughts that she almost misses passing Jackson talking to someone in a corridor perpendicular to her own. Once she registers this information, she pulls to a stop and peers round the corner.

“Jackson it's fine, leave it,” the other voice says, soft and timid. She can barely hear them let alone work out who it is. Jackson's blocking the other person, so Stiles leans further to try and get a better angle.

“I want you to call me next time, can you promise me that?” 

He sounds so concerned and genuine that Stiles falters and slips, keeling forward and landing on her knees, hard. 

Jackson whips around and stares at her, blue eyes wide in shock.

Just as she's about to bolt and pretend she saw nothing – it's none of her business what Jackson gets up to in his spare time – she sees who it is. Isaac Lahey.

Stiles scrambles to her feet, taking a defensive stance, “what are you doing, Jackson?”

“Fuck off, Stilinski,” he growls through gritted teeth. Stiles really needs to stop with the animal imagery, all this supernatural stuff is going to her head.

“You need to get away from him. Leave him the fuck alone, Whittemore.”

“I'm fine, Stiles,” Isaac steps forward from beside Jackson.

“But, yesterday-” 

Isaac and Jackson share a look. Stiles is horrifically confused and, for some reason, a little angry.

“Tell me what's going on.”

“I live across the street from him,” Jackson says as if that explains anything.

“Me and my dad don't really get along sometimes-”

“Understatement of the century,” Jackson mutters under his breath.

“So what really happened was...” Stiles prompts, not quite following.

“I was checking if he was okay, since I didn't see him all evening the night before, okay?”

Something sort of clicks, “when you say you don't get on...”

Isaac's gaze snaps away and he becomes even more aloof, but almost too much so. She thinks he's doing his best not to seem scared, and he's doing a much better job than she probably could.

“Oh,” Stiles says, paling a little. She doesn't know how to deal with this, with someone in such a different situation to her. Or is he? She feels a little sick as she recognises their similarities from what little she knows of him, but shakes her head, clearing those thoughts. “I'm sorry for just barging in here... Yeah.”

Isaac shakes his head a little, his golden curls bouncing with the movement, “thanks for defending my honour though.”

“Yeah.”

When Stiles raises her gaze to Jackson's, there's a softness there that she hasn't seen in years. Her stomach lurches.

“I don't really want people to know,” Isaac tilts his head, his surprisingly defined cheekbones catch the light. He's regarding her, assessing how trustworthy she is.

“Are you sure? My dad-”

“No, Stiles,” there's something in his eyes, “we're doing good at the moment. I don't want to ruin it.”

She nods minutely with a swallow, “I won't. I know it's not really any of my business but... Tell me if anything happens, yeah?” She grimaces, “I'm sorry for making you tell me.”

Jackson rolls his eyes, “he wouldn't have if he didn't want to.”

They stand in silence for a moment, and Stiles can't drag her eyes away from the lacrosse captain. There's so much unacknowledged familiarity between them. And now she knows that he isn't the complete asswipe he wants people to think he is.

“Oh,” Stiles says a little too loudly when her train of thought crashes, “would you look at the time. Must be off to class now.”

She skips away back down the corridor she came from, now a considerable amount later than she had been. Oh well, Finstock's unlikely to give her a detention.

She wonders how many secrets she can keep before she bursts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> speaking of education   
> I HAVE TO LEARN TWO MONOLOGUES BY NEXT SATURDAY   
> WHY DO I DO THIS TO MYSELF  
> IT'S MY FIRST ACTING SCHOOL AUDITION OH JESUSSSSSSSSSSSS  
> hope u enjoy this chapter   
> lemme kno <3


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry it's a bit lateeeee  
> been mega ill over the last weekend  
> and had to write a shit ton of coursework  
> enjoy

Stiles pulls on a slightly oversized jumper, it reaches the tops of her thighs, and she has to roll the sleeves back at least once, although she's more into the elbow roll. Sleeves are overrated.

It's a deep wine red, something horrific her dad wore back in the 80s when he was the personification of a Brat Pack movie.

Apparently, as the legend goes, it's what he was wearing when he met her mom. They always were that kind of soppy couple, telling the ancient stories of all their shared firsts.

Honestly, it's a little musty smelling, but more in that vintage clothing way than a gross, mouldy way. And yes, Stiles is fully aware that it makes her look even more like a hipster than usual. A grungy hipster rather than a nerdy hipster, but a hipster all the same.

She doesn't have long before she's supposed to be picking Scott up to drive to the Hales', and she's only half dressed. 

“Dad!” She yells out of her door, “where are my grey jeans?” They're her newest pair and the most presentable, even if she's dressed pretty casual from the waist up, she feels like there is some impression to be made.

Although at least one of them has seen her naked so... Maybe it doesn't matter.

“I don't know, Stiles! Check the laundry? Or maybe try tidying your room some time, you never know what you'll find under all that trash!”

“Dad!” Stiles whines in response, darting to the laundry basket and yep. There they are. She'd forgotten about the chocolate stain on the right knee and it's too late to do anything now. She runs her fingers through her hair as she makes a new plan, it's then that she realises that her hair is kind of greasy and probably definitely needs a wash.

Grimacing in the mirror, she attempts to arrange it to look less flat and gross, it's unsuccessful. She grabs her dry-shampoo, but it's empty. The shitty lights in her bedroom cast grotesque shadows across her face, dark smudges under her eyes and razor-sharp cheekbones. Her reflection shrugs sympathetically at her as she feels about ready to just get into bed and go to sleep.

But no. She needs answers.

With grim determination, she heaps her hair into a bun and pulls on her only available jeans – the ones torn from her eventful wander into the woods at the start of the week.

She can only stare at herself in despair for so long before it's time to leave, her dad just raises an eyebrow at her as she passes him in the kitchen to collect her keys from him.

“It's called fashion, look it up,” she huffs, adjusting her clothes.

“I didn't say anything, although-” he appraises her again, “couldn't you afford to wear something even a little bit nice?”

With an eye roll, she lifts the hem of the jumper, revealing the edge of the floral sort-of-cropped-but-not-really shirt she has underneath, a compromise of sorts.

“Oh, I see, someone you're trying to impress?”

“God, dad, stop,” she swipes the keys from him, but not before kissing his cheek. She ducks away before he can even try to ruffle her hair, and darts out the house with a quick, “'kay, thanks, see you later, dad!”

 

“Scott, good to go?”

“Yeah, let me just check out with Deaton.”

Stiles follows Scott dutifully into the back room where the vet has a cat sat on the metal bench.

“Hello gorgeous boy,” Stiles coos, stepping towards them seeking love. She sticks a finger out towards the tabby, it eyes her curiously before nudging at the tip with its top lip. “Who's this?” She asks, looking up at Deaton as she begins to scritch delicate, soft fur behind the cat's ear.

“This is Mike, he's just recovering from his neutering.”

“This cat is called Mike? Oh my god, I can't explain how amazing that is,” she leans closer to Mike, her lips jutting in sympathy, “oh baby. You poor thing, I can't imagine waking up with no balls one day.”

She hears a badly contained snort from Scott behind her, but she's ignored as the vet turns to her friend, “I believe you're having dinner with the Hales tonight?”

Stiles freezes, still bent over Mike, she doesn't look up.

“Yeah,” Scott says, almost forlornly, “I guess she wanted to check up on me, you know, because I got hurt? I can't remember if I told you about that.”

Stiles glances up now, and sees Deaton smile, “well I hope you have an enjoyable evening. If Miss Stilinski here isn't planning on catnapping my patient, I should be getting on with his checkup.”

With a final rub to Mike's forehead, Stiles steps away from the cat and the bench, frowning. Deaton has always been slightly too zen for her tastes, but basically lying about his involvement the other night? Something seriously doesn't make sense.

She suddenly sees that she forgot about him and how he factors into all of this. Shouldn't he be wondering about Scott's wound a little more? Worried about how he's healing, if he should be working, all of that?

Does his excessive disinterest mean he already knows everything?

“Stiles?” Scott snaps his fingers in her face.

“Yeah, buddy? Oh, right. We off? Catch you later, Doc,” Stiles waves absently as they leave.

 

This time, no one waits on the porch to greet them. Scott goes right up to ring the bell with no hesitation, Stiles catching up behind him after fetching some things out of the boot of the jeep.

The door is answered by Derek, his expression grim.

Stiles frowns at him, but he just moves out of the way to let them in, no words exchanged. They're then greeted by Talia whose smile is slightly tight, creating an uncomfortable tension in the air.

“Thank you for coming Scott, Stiles,” she says, “you're both looking much better from last time I saw you.”

“Ah, yeah, definitely feeling it,” Stiles fidgets before noticing Scott's stiff and frozen stance, she nudges him but he doesn't react. Talia's eyes fall on the boy with an almost sad glaze before she gestures to the doorway.

“Dinner's almost ready, please, take a seat.”

Seated, the tension doesn't exactly ease up. There are six places set, three seats facing each other with Scott on the end, Stiles in the middle and Cora on her other side. The seats opposite Scott and Cora are empty, but Derek fills the space across from Stiles.

Something is still off with him, he's sort of sulky and grumpy. Well, grumpier than usual. He's not exactly of the sunniest disposition. 

Very soon, a man enters and puts various dishes on the table, followed by Talia with a jug of ice-water. He's fairer than the other Hales with blue eyes and brown hair, but shares the same defined cheekbones and rugged beauty.

Once they're all seated, he's introduced by Talia; “my brother, Peter. He cooked most of this, it's a talent I unfortunately did not inherit from our parents.”

Stiles turns her gaze politely to Peter, across from Cora, but once their eyes meet, a shiver goes through her and she swallows, “um. This is Scott. McCall. Scott McCall. I'm Stiles.”

“It's a pleasure to meet you both, I'm sure,” his voice is a purr, almost predatory. 

She smiles at him briefly before leaning in close to her friend to murmur, “you okay, buddy?”

Scott turns his wide eyes on her, his bewilderment a strange contrast to the way his teeth are gritted. There's an uncomfortable determination in his expression and a tick in his jaw that suggests to Stiles that he is losing-

Scott's eyes shift away and he growls, shoving his chair away and standing defensively, staring at the Hales.

His eyes spark yellow, claws pop from his fingers and his face contorts.

“Scott,” Stiles says warningly, as if she's scolding a puppy and not her half-feral best friend.

“Scott, sweetie,” Talia stands up, raising her hands defensively, “you're okay. We invited you here to talk.”

He turns his attention to her, snapping his jaws, breathing heavily, “Stiles, they're monsters, we need to go.”

“Sco-” Stiles begins but is cut off in surprise when his hand closes around her wrist. “Woah, be careful! I don't know if you've noticed but you have fucking claws so.” Her heart is racing a little too fast, and she probably sounds a tad hysterical, but also there are sharp objects very close to her veins.

“Please, it's dangerous here.”

“Oh dear,” Peter says, not really helping, “I almost forgot how little control they have when they're first turned.”

The growl crescendos into a roar as Scott attempts to confront the older man, but before he can step forward, Talia is out of her seat and pressing a hand to Scott's cheek, her eyes lighting up red.

Stiles stares up at her, mouth slack, “I was right. I was fucking right!” She can feel more than one pair of eyes on her, but what's important is that Scott is too shocked to attack their host, and his wolfiness has subdued. Well, either he's shocked or- “Are you like, a special one or something?”

“Peter,” Talia says without breaking eye contact with Scott, “I think the food will save until later. Right now we should have that talk.”

Scott's grip on Stiles loosens and she pulls away, rubbing at the red marks on her skin.

Cora and Derek tidy the table, and everyone else moves to the lounge, Scott and Stiles sharing a sofa facing Talia and Peter across the coffee table

No one makes a move to say anything, so Stiles volunteers herself to break the silence, “so. Werewolves, am I right?”

She receives an indulgent smile from Talia, which annoys her a little because it really isn't the most obvious conclusion and she's pretty proud of her deduction skills on this one.

“Yes, that's right, we're werewolves.”

“Can I ask some questions?” asks Scott, his voice a little quieter and flatter than normal.

Talia nods and gestures for him to continue.

Scott wrings his hands for a moment, “it was the bite that turned me, right?”

“Yes.”

“Were you all bitten?”

“No, we're born. The Hale family goes back a long way, of course not everyone inherits the gene, but that doesn't make them any less pack.”

“Pack?”

“Wolves travel in packs,” Stiles supplies, “they have an alpha who leads them, they can be made up of family or ties of affection, and there is a ranking order. I'm guessing it's the same?”

“What happens if you're not in a pack?” Scott interrupts before anyone can answer Stiles.

“Then you become omega,” Peter responds, “omegas have weaker control and higher chances of going feral.”

Scott is silent, his elbows rest on his knees and his head is dipped down.

“What about the eye colour thing?” Stiles pipes up, concerned for Scott but innately curious. “Scott's are yellow, but yours are red.”

“I have red because I'm the alpha,” Talia allows her eyes to glow for a moment, demonstrating, “yellow is for betas and omegas.”

“What about blue?” Stiles asks, recalling the creature that attacked Scott.

“Blue is... Complicated,” Talia glances at her brother, “it also means omega or beta, but it represents someone who has taken a life.”

“Can any werewolf give the bite?”

“No, only alphas.”

“I suppose that makes sense.”

“Is there a cure?” Scott asks without looking up.

“The bite is a gift, Scott,” Talia's expression is soft.

“I don't want it,” his voice is hoarse, Stiles feels a tug in her chest.

“It saved your life.”

“What?” Stiles shoots up and stares at Talia, “what do you mean it saved his life? He wasn't dying when he was attacked.”

“He-”

“Wait. Only alphas can turn people, and that thing... That thing had blue eyes. Which means... You did it. You bit him. There wouldn't be another alpha on your territory, it has to be you.”

“I think-” Peter begins, but is cut off by his sister.

“You're right, Stiles. I did give him the bite, but he wouldn't have survived otherwise.”

“And why didn't you let him die?”

“Stiles!” Scott exclaims with a wounded expression.

“Not like that, I mean. I mean, we're just some kids, why would you let us in on your secret? You could have just called an ambulance and let that be it.”

“He would have died, Stiles,” Talia says softly, “I couldn't let you feel that guilt, you would have thought it was your fault.”

“Well, it would have been my fault. Equally, Scott's loss of humanity is also my fault.”

“It's no-one's fault but whatever attacked him. Do you think we could talk to just Scott for a while?”

“Oh,” Stiles' gaze glides from Talia to Scott, “yeah, I'll just step out.”

“Don't worry, Stiles,” Peter says with a smile, “we don't bite.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (derek literally says nothing in this chapter, i'm sorry)


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i believe it's been quite a while sorry  
> also slightly shorter update bc i wanted to get something out ygm
> 
> srsly someone tell me how to italicise

“I have your shirt,” Stiles says as she leans against the railing of the porch, a brooding figure sits beside her on the floor, “at least I think it's yours. Is basketball your sport of choice?” Derek narrows his hazel-grey eyes up at her and opens his mouth to respond, but Stiles gets there first, “we've had this conversation before. Sorry. My mind is all over the place.”

He huffs and shifts a little, giving her room to drop down beside him and dangle her legs.

“In fact, I'm not sure what just happened, I think I said some things I'm going to regret.”

They both stare out into the twilight, the air shifts in a gentle breeze. It's cold, Stiles is glad for her dad's sweater but even so, there's an edge of chill on her skin.

“When,” Derek speaks after a moment of quiet, “are you going to regret them?”

Stiles swipes a hand down her face, her fingers are colourless, “pretty soon, I've got a sneaking suspicion that I said something pretty bad.”

“Is there anything else you want to know?” About werewolves. The supernatural. This whole world she never knew existed but sits right on the edge of her own.

Stiles swings her legs out in front of her as she thinks, “super healing, right?”

“Yeah,” Derek answers, soft, almost as if he's embarrassed, “and hearing, and well... The senses, I guess.”

“Shit so you... You heard everything in there?”

She feels him nod, sees it out of the corner of her eye. They're not quite touching, but she can feel his resonating warmth at her side. She stops herself from leaning into it.

“Humanity,” he says. She remembers exactly what it is now, the incriminating line. So offhand. _Loss of humanity_. “I know you don't know much about us,” he continues, “I know this must be... overwhelming. But we're not monsters.”

Stiles says nothing, she feels like anything she could say would just be an excuse.

“There are people,” he clears his throat, as if he doesn't normally talk so much, “that hunt us.”

“What?” She snaps her eyes to him, sees the porch light caressing his cheek, the softness of the evening dulling his edges. 

He doesn't look at her.

“They have a code, some of them.”

“Why do they hunt you?”

“We're not monsters,” he says again, “but we're dangerous.”

In this moment, it's a little bit hard to believe. She knows it's true, she's seen it, but here Derek is. Softly spoken, warm.

“I'm not scared of you,” she says, then snorts a giggle. He meets her eye then, one impressive eyebrow raised quizzically. “Sorry, kind of a cliched thing to say.”

He huffs a laugh, not hiding his amusement.

“But in all seriousness,” she sobers her expression, but doesn't look away, “I'm not. Maybe your mom, a little, sometimes. The jury's still out on your uncle.”

“And Scott?”

“And Scott... Ugh, it's so complicated with Scott at the moment. I love him to bits but...”

“It's going to be different now, with him, I mean,” there's a slight warmth creeping into the tips of Derek's ears.

“Huh?”

“His control isn't... You'll both have to be careful when you...”

“Are you-? Is this- Is this what I think it is right now?” Stiles gawks at the werewolf, “are you giving me the sex talk right now?”

“No need to make such a spectacle of it,” Derek mumbles into his sleeve, leaning against his hand.

“Me and Scott- Oh my god, I wouldn't bone that guy even if I was hammered!”

Derek glances at her through the corner of his eye, “you aren't-?”

“No,” Stiles answers firmly, “he's practically my brother. Plus, he's very decidedly smitten with his girlfriend, who is very decidedly not me. God, this isn't When Harry Met Sally, there is such thing as a platonic relationship between a guy and a girl, you know. And I-” Stiles is cut off by a growl.

Derek turns his head to face her fully, his eyes wide and searching.

“That was-” It comes again. His gaze drops to where her arms are wrapped around her stomach, “shut up,” she grumbles, “it's been a while since lunch.”

Although, she did inhale a couple of doughnuts when she got home from school.

He doesn't need to know that.

Derek's tone is dry when he replies, pursing his lips to prevent a twitch of amusement, “you must be suffering so much.”

“I am,” Stiles says, mock sincerity sparkling in her eyes.

Without another word, Derek shuffles back and pulls himself up by the bannister. Stiles frowns at him.

He reaches out a hand, “food? Also it's cold out here.”

Stiles accepts his hand, even though it makes it more awkward for her to get up, and snarks back, “is it? I hadn't noticed.”

His fingers are weirdly warm, and his hold is strong but gentle, but she pulls away as soon as she's up. Werewolves must run hot.

Or something.

Derek moves inside, leaving Stiles still slightly startled on the porch. As the door swings shut, she jumps back into life and trips after him.

The kitchen in the Hale house, unsurprisingly, is ridiculously suave, if a kitchen could be called that. But again, Stiles is most struck by the cosiness of it. It's stylish, but so warm and welcoming that it takes her back for a moment. It creates a strange juxtaposition in her head.

“Dinner will probably be awkwardly lukewarm at the moment, do you want a sandwich or something?” Derek is facing away from Stiles as she reaches the kitchen, one hand braced against the top of the fridge, the other holding it open as he leans inside.

Stiles gapes for a moment at the muscles she can see through the back of his shirt. Feeling very warm suddenly – because of the being inside and the oven and stuff, not anything else, shut up – she strips out of her sweater and hangs it on the back of a chair. She makes her way to beside Derek to peer over his shoulder, rubbing her hand over her neck in vague embarrassment.

“A sandwich would work,” she says, bending forward a little further to see further over Derek's shoulder. She's losing balance a little, and is sort of tempted to lean on his shoulder, but isn't quite sure of what's socially acceptable here.

Are werewolves tactile? Wolves are, humans can be, so it would make sense for them to be. But Derek. Derek's not exactly a cuddly looking guy. 

Okay, well. That's not exactly right. He _looks_ cuddly, like Stiles would totally get all up and personal with that, he just doesn't look like the cuddling type, he's a little too prickly. Like a cactus.

Or a succulent, Stiles supposes, People forget about the distinction way too often. Poor little guys.

Good thing they're not sentient. 

Like Audrey II or something. Stiles shudders at the thought of a giant man-eating plant. That's more of a venus flytrap though.

“Stiles.”

Stiles blinks, focussing again. Then she blinks again, “hi.”

There's a pair of grey-hazel (greyzel?) eyes narrowed inches from her own amber ones. Derek is looking at her over his shoulder, his eyebrows raised in amusement.

“Sorry,” she cringes, “you were saying?”

“What do you want in your sandwich? I'm having turkey.”

“Turkey sounds good, yes, um,” she realises her hands are resting on Derek's shoulder blade and in a flail she stands up and stretches them over her head, wandering across the kitchen to some cupboards, “plates?”

Derek watches her for a moment, “to the left above your head. Anything else you want with this?”

“Um, I don't know, what do you have?” 

He turns back to the fridge and grabs some things, she proceeds to pull down a couple of plates, taking them to the counter next to the tin marked 'bread'.

Derek joins her after a moment, placing a few different jars and some salady things on the surface before reaching out for the drawer inbetween them.

Stiles appraises the condiments momentarily, and they set to work.

 

“Stiles, we're going.”

Stiles looks up from where she's sat on the floor, “yeah?”

Scott's standing in the doorway, not looking great. He's definitely calmer, but there's a furrow in his brow and his expression is downcast.

He nods, his eyes cutting to Derek momentarily where he's sat beside her.

With an extraordinary lack of grace, Stiles clambers to her feet, even resorting to holding the counter to keep her stable. She reaches a hand out to Derek, he raises an eyebrow.

“The plates,” she says, almost defensively.

He sighs and passes them up to her, “over there, next to the sink.”

“Aye, aye.”

Scott watches with slightly narrowed eyes, jerks his head to the door before leaving for the jeep, Stiles presumes.

“Is he gonna be okay?” She asks as she picks up her sweater from the chair.

“Define okay.”

Stiles rolls her eyes at him, then thinks again, “oh, um. For the foreseeable future regarding his newfound lycanthropy but also on the drive back – he's not gonna turn furry on me, is he?”

“He seems calm enough at the moment, but he could be on a hair trigger.”

“Wow, that's reassuring,” Stiles drawls.

Derek seems to focus on something beyond the room for a moment, “looks like you don't need to worry.”

“Hm?” 

Before she can protest, Stiles is being ushered out of the house by Derek and towards the jeep, where Scott's silhouette is leaning against the hood moodily.

As they approach, Derek's face sort of spasms through a whole range of expressions before he schools it into one of his regular old vaguely-murdererish ones.

“Problem?” Stiles asks, eyebrows raised.

“Nope,” Derek huffs and climbs into the passenger seat. 

“Sorry buddy, looks like you've lost shotgun,” Stiles slaps Scott's shoulder and walks round to the driver's seat, the last into the vehicle. There's a heavy silence between the boys. Stiles purses her lips as she starts the engine. “Thunderbirds are go,” she mutters.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> lots of derek tho!
> 
> little bit unrelated but today i made the decision to cut my hair  
> but like a lot of my hair  
> like more than half  
> it's belly button/waist length atm (and wavy so probs a bit longer)  
> and i'm cutting it to above my collar bones so yay life choices  
> hopefully it'll make me look older and taller idk


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not quite a month...  
> woo

“So,” Stiles speaks, Scott is home safe and sound, and Derek sits in silence, “want me to drop you home now, or-?”

She doesn't look, but she can feel his gaze on her, “I can run home.”

“What? Slow down, wolf-boy. It's numerous miles from my house to yours.”

There's a huff from the passenger seat, but it's amused rather than irritated. She thinks.

Hopes.

Maybe 'wolf-boy' was too far.

He doesn't say anything, so Stiles lets it be.

Until, “so.”

Derek turns back to her expectantly, eyebrows raised. She glances across at him.

“Yes?” He asks.

“Well, um. I guess I was wondering...” She bites her lip, not sure how to ask what she wants to ask.

“Stiles.”

“What happens now?”

“What?”

“Like, am I supposed to just... Carry on?” Her hands fidget nervously on the wheel, she feels her fingers start to ache.

Again, Derek says nothing, just sits there.

They drive in silence until they reach Stiles' drive where Derek walks her up to the house as if they're in a teen rom-com.

She fumbles for her keys, not needing to be quiet with her dad still on shift, but frustrated that she's struggling so much, the dull pain in her fingers beginning to throb again. They haven't hurt for the last few days, she's been too distracted. 

Derek just waits.

Stiles glares at him to hide her embarrassment, but when she eventually gets the door unlocked and pushes to open, Derek stops it with his hand.

“Uh.”

“Don't forget to lock up,” he says, his expression is muted by the darkness.

“Yeah,” she says, “sure.”

“I'm serious.”

“When are you not?” she smirks, but something tells her she shouldn't.

“Goodnight, Stiles,” he says, absolutely no humour to his voice as he turns to leave. Something stabs at her gut, she's not sure if it's worry, fear or...

“Wait,” she stops him with a tug to his shirt. “Sorry, I-” she drops her hand like it's been burnt, rubs the back of her neck, “what do I do if-” shakes her head, “sorry. Never mind. Go home safe, Derek.”

Stiles turns back into her house and shuts the door before Derek has a chance to reply. She locks the door immediately and waits until she hears his footsteps leading away. 

Then she goes to bed.

 

The absence of colour strikes her first. It's not dark or light, it just _is_. She doesn't feel cold, but vague alarm pricks at the hair on the back of her neck. 

The ground is gnarled and knotted, almost writhing against her bare feet. A horizon stretches in every direction, infinite and empty. 

She can feel something behind her- someone behind her? There's a definite disruption somewhere near, and it draws closer.

She doesn't turn around. Can't.

She inhales, but there's no air. There's nothing.

Nothing but the blood pounding in her ears.

 

“Stilinski.”

Stiles shoots up, missing anything solid as her hands shoot out for balance, and half falls out of her- chair? “Wha- I wasn't- I was jus-”

She takes a moment to slow down, look around. She's at her desk. In class.

Finstock's class. 

He's stood with his arms crossed, the epitome of unimpressed teacher, but he doesn't say anything more – just turns back to the board to continue writing something about... Economics.

She becomes aware of Scott to her left, squinting at her.

With a shrug and a raised eyebrow at him, she looks away first, training her eyes on the board. However, her attention is split once again as there's a flicker of movement in the corner of her eye. She tries to ignore it, wanting a break from the overload of supernatural information that is tainting her life at the moment, but. Something starts to blossom in her mind. A persistent feeling, she needs to acknowledge the movement. 

With an impatience huff through her nose, she turns and finds herself searching the field beyond the window for signs of disturbance. There's no one out there.

Squinting, Stiles eyes the treeline, slightly too far away for her to make out anything significant.

Just as she makes to face the front, something happens. It's almost like a ripple runs through the trees, parting the shrubbery momentarily, like it's windy out. But it isn't, everything else sits still. Stiles wants to groan, to ignore the little things she always picks up on that, recently, always seem to lead to something bad. Or... Not bad, that seems unfair to the Hales.

Beside her, Stiles hears a small gasp and meets widened eyes as she turns to face Scott. She arches an eyebrow expectantly and he nods. He's noticed it too.

There's a blunt grappling sound as Scott grips his desk with (thankfully) human hands, his mouth is slightly open as his gaze wanders back to the field. Something must be happening out there, Stiles guesses that Scott's wolfy senses are picking up on a lot more than she could even hope to.

Suddenly his palms are covering his ears and he's hunching over in his seat. He starts to rumble, likely building to a growl, and Scott's shut eyes heavily imply to Stiles that they're displaying their supernatural iridescence rather than their usual chocolatey hue. 

Stiles can't hear anything, at least, nothing out of the ordinary and definitely not whatever Scott is reacting to, but... She can feel something. Like a tingle in the backs of her hands.

“McCall, you doing okay, buddy?” Coach asks nervously from the front of the class. Naturally, all eyes are on Scott. 

Without opening his eyes, Scott nods, his breathing is laboured.

“What is it, an asthma attack?”

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Stiles volunteers, considering it doubtful that Scott would want to talk for himself, “I'll take him to the nurse's office.”

“You do that, but hurry back!”

Stiles salutes before hoisting Scott out of his chair and away from the classroom.

She doesn't take him to the nurse but instead to an empty classroom.

“You can open your eyes now,” she says once she's checked the corridor and shut the door.

Scott's hands are balled into fists, knuckles white with tension. Blood trickles down his palms. It's a little distressing to witness.

“No,” he grinds out, “Stiles, you need to go.”

“Don't be ridiculous, Scott. I'm not leaving you to wolf out on some poor unsuspecting student,” she crosses her arms over across her chest and leans against the teacher's desk.

“Stiles! Go!”

“Do you have anyone's number? Any of the Hales?”

“Stiles-” honestly, Scott seems about ready to huff and puff and blow someone's house the fuck down.

“Scott! Listen to me, focus for a sec, yeah?” 

He doesn't. In two predatory steps, he stalks towards Stiles. His eyes are open now, bright yellow-gold, and his fangs hang sharp in his open mouth. His shoulders are hunched, tension and aggression bleeding from every aspect of his gait.

“Fuck, Scott. Stop,” she hates to admit it, but Stiles is a little scared of her best friend in this moment. 

As he reaches her, Stiles manages to slip past him and towards the door, holding tight to the doorknob, ready for an escape.

With a growl, Scott whips around to face her, his claws snagging on the desk and tearing four gashes out of the wood with what seems to be very little resistance.

Stiles swallows audibly. 

This is serious.

“Scott, stop,” she tries not to beg, but it's hard. “Think of something else.”

“Like what?” he demands through gritted teeth.

“I don't know, Scott! Lacrosse? Homework? Your bike?”

When Scott's head cocks to the side, his attention snapping elsewhere, Stiles finds it hard not to draw parallels with a dog's ears pricking up at a sound.

“Allison...” he murmurs, his shift receding and his posture relaxing. He closes his eyes, breathing deeply and concentrating on somewhere other than here. When he opens them, he's calm again, but startles when he takes in Stiles' paler than usual complexion and slightly clammy grip on the doorknob. “I told you to go,” he says, a little helplessly, “are you okay?”

Stiles brushes him off with a shake of her head, “you should go home. Or to see our local wolf pack.”

“I'm fine, Stiles.”

“No, Scott. I'm serious. You need to go.”

Scott slumps a little but nods, “I'll catch you later.”

Their hug is brief and delicate, each one wary of breaking the other.

Once her friend is gone, Stiles takes a moment to gather her thoughts before heading back to enjoy the rest of her Economics class.

 

Cora Hale is lounging at their usual lunch table when Stiles gets there.

She approaches cautiously.

“Can I help you?” Stiles asks, glancing around to see if any of her friends are nearby. They're not.

“I need to talk to you. About Scott.”

Stiles tenses – does Cora know about what happened earlier? “Okay...” She answers warily, not exactly mentally prepared for a lecture on dealing with out of control werewolves.

Cora rolls her eyes, “are you going to sit down?”

“What, here?”

“It's loud in here, it's fine.”

Stiles swings her legs under the bench across from the Hale, hugging her bag in her lap protectively, “what do you need to say?”

“Scott's an idiot.”

There's a derisive snort from Stiles, although she can't help but feel a little guilty after for not defending her best friend. Unfortunately she finds it hard to disagree, “what of it?”

“His girlfriend's dangerous.”

“Allison? Dangerous? Allison's like, the sweetest girl ever.”

“The sweetest girl ever just happens to be a hunter.”

Stiles blinks. Blinks again. “What.”

“Allison is a hunter. Think about it.”

She does, racks her brain for what she knows about Allison. She's smart, pretty, a year older than Stiles, but that's because she's moved around a lot – to far so unhelpful. She's moved around a lot because... Stiles frowns, unable to remember what Scott had said about that. Stiles knows that Allison's dad is a weapons dealer, but so what? People are. Allison's mom is... A teacher, Stiles thinks. And her aunt, Kate, well. But there's something...

The blank expression on Stiles' face causes Cora to sigh, “Allison _Argent_.”

Argent. Allison's family is French, right? So that means... “Silver?”

“Oh my god,” Cora's nose wrinkles in distaste and impatience.

“So... Silver and werewolves. Is that a thing?”

“Nope. I wonder where that story comes from.” Cora begins to get up, but Stiles grabs her wrist, pulling her back down.

“You're sure? The Argents are hunters?”

“Very sure,” Cora's expression is serious, almost threatening.

“Shit,” Stiles says, “what do we do?”

“For one, we will be doing what we've done since the Argents got here-”

“What have you been doing?” Stiles cuts in, her curiosity buzzing just beneath her skin, “do they know about you?”

“Lying low, not getting into any trouble. And yes, they know. We have treaties. Can I continue?”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Scott needs to break up with her.”

Stiles shakes her head with a sigh, “that's not going to have the desired effect.”

“Don't be an idiot. This is to save his life, this is bigger than anything you or him could understand. His teenage romance is nothing compared to that.”

“No,” Stiles meets Cora's eye, “you don't understand. I get that there's a shit tonne of danger involved in their relationship, but you saw him the other night. He doesn't trust you. Any of you. You think taking something away from him will help that?”

“She's a murderer.”

“Cora, believe me. Look, I'll do what I can to keep an eye out, I'll even warn Scott. But... Just believe me, okay?”

Cora stands and stares down at Stiles for a moment. There's a fold in her brow, her frustration evident. “You can't protect him,” she says, and leaves.

“Maybe not, but I can fucking try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i went clubbing for the first time ever  
> spent a week angsting about the fact a guy i met didn't text me  
> went to a party and decided to message him anyway  
> now we've been chatting for a week  
> just as friends tho, he lives too far away for anything else  
> pretty sure he wouldn't be that into me anyway
> 
> ANYWAY HOPE YOU ENJOY  
> THANKS FOR THE KUDOS AND COMMENTS YAY


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> woooo chapter 10  
> feel like this is some kind of milestone  
> hurray (or is it hooray idk)

It feels like forever for the rest of school to pass, but finally Stiles is free.

When she gets outside, however, the cruiser is nowhere to be seen. But, fair enough, she can't expect Parrish to always be on time since he actually has a job to be doing.

She settles down against a wall to wait, watching idly as the other students filter from the school and towards the cars and buses.

When her name is spoken suddenly, she jumps, finding Allison stood behind her.

“Oh hey, sorry, I zoned out for a moment there,” Stiles laughs and shuffles to make room on the wall, “you alright?”

Allison sits, “yeah, you?” 

“Yeah, I'm fine- Is something wrong? You seem-”

“Distracted?” Allison's flitting gaze finally lands on Stiles and she smiles briefly, “I guess I am. Have you seen Scott?”

Stiles remembers Cora's warning from earlier and tenses involuntarily. Allison frowns, it's not an expression Stiles has seen on her often, but even then it does little to mar the delicacy of her features. Despite their similar colouring – pale skin, dark hair and eyes – Allison always comes out on top in terms of looks. And personality. And fitness. And fashion sense.

Not that Stiles is bitter.

“I think he's sick, he didn't look good in Econ,” she answers with a careless shrug.

“Yeah, I heard about that, I texted him but he hasn't got back to me.”

“He's probably just asleep, I wouldn't sweat it,” honestly though, Stiles isn't sure why she can't contact him, it's not like he knows about the hunter thing. Unless the Hales have told him already. 

But, he could just be avoiding her to keep her safe.

“If you're sure...”

“Of course. Why, is something going on between you two?”

Allison looks away, her jaw clenching.

Stiles backtracks, “oh shit, sorry. I guess you have Lydia to talk to about that kind of thing.”

Allisons shakes her head, her glossy hair bouncing on her shoulders. Stiles wonders how she keeps her hair so healthy, and so perfect. She has literally never seen it even the slightest bit greasy – not that she purposefully look for it... She decides that whatever Allison does, it is probably more effort than Stiles wants to allocate to her hair, or anything to be honest.

When she finally tears her eyes away from Allison's luscious lock, she realises that Allison has been talking.

“-don't know, I just don't feel like he's completely there. I guess if he's sick though, it might have been because of that.”

“Honestly, Scott is head over heels for you, has been from the start,” Stiles kind of feels like she needs to not say things like that to a potential threat, but also can't seem to stop the words from escaping her.

When Allison nods though, Stiles still senses some kind of internal conflict. She doesn't mention it, though, she's not exactly a heart-to-heart kind of person.

“Are you driving home?” Stiles asks, scanning the emptying car park for Allison's car.

“No, my aunt's here and she wanted to take me out so she's picking me up.”

“Oh, okay. That sounds nice. Do you get to see her often?”

“Not as much as I'd like, to be honest. She's quite a lot younger than my dad, more like my older sister to be honest, we used to be really close.”

“That's a shame.”

A car pulls up beside us, the window winding down automatically to allow a view into the car. At the wheel is a blonde woman, who, from where Stiles is standing, is intimidatingly slim and muscular. 

“Kate,” Allison smiles.

“Heya, sweetie, how about you hop in and we get this show on the road,” the woman, Kate, grins. Her voice is husky and saccharine sweet. “Who's your friend?” she asks as Allison opens the door.

“This is Stiles, Scott's friend, remember?”

Stiles shows her teeth in a sort of smile, but can't help but notice the hostility she's regarded with almost immediately as Scott is mentioned.

“What an odd name for a girl,” Kate remarks.

“It's a nickname,” Stiles offers stiffly.

“Cute,” Kate says dismissively, turning to Allison again, “are you ready?”

Allison nods, waving minutely to Stiles through the window as they pull away. Stiles watches the car with an odd feeling in her gut.

If the Argents are hunters, what does it mean for that piece of work to suddenly turn up? Reinforcements?

Stiles sits back against the wall, watching as the last few people head home.

She decides to try and call Scott, see what's up with him, but she goes straight to answer phone. As she puts her phone away again, she notices that she's been waiting for at least half an hour.

Parrish is never this late.

She dials for him, but the phone rings out. She tries again, just in case, but it's exactly the same, this time deciding to leave a message; “hey, Parrish. Or, uh, Jordan I guess. It's Stiles. Obviously. I think you've forgotten something. Something pretty important if you ask me. So, uh, call me back to let me know what's going on?”

It's just moments later when her phone buzzes in her hand, but it's not Scott or Parrish. It's an unknown number, hidden caller ID.

Deliberating for too long on whether or not to answer, the ringing cuts off. She doesn't put her phone away, though. She waits to see if it rings again.

It does.

After waiting for a moment, so she doesn't seem too eager, she accepts the call and brings the phone to her ear.

“Hello?”

“Stiles? So glad I got hold of you,” it's a male voice. Mature. Well-spoken.

“I'm sorry, I don't know wh-”

“It's Peter. Peter Hale. We met just the other night.”

“Oh, yeah, how do you have my number?” Stiles edges, a little confused.

“That's unimportant. I need you to get here as soon as you can.”

“Um. Firstly, where is here? And secondly, I don't have a car at the moment.”

“Oh, of course, I apologise. Where are you? I can pick you up.”

“No, it's okay, my ride will be here soon,” Stiles is sure Peter is lovely, it's just... Stranger danger and all that.

“You mean that deputy boy?”

“Um, sorry. Can you tell me what exactly it is that you need from me?”

“Oh my, didn't I mention? It's Scott.”

“What?” She snaps to attention.

“It's imperative that you come here as soon as possible.”

“But I can't, I-”

“Are you still at the school?”

“What? What's wrong with Scott?” 

“I won't be long.”

There's a bleep as the call is cut off.

Stiles is suddenly very aware of how quiet it is. She knows the basketball team is in the gym practising, and she knows a lot of the teachers are still around but at that moment, the car park is empty, the road outside the school is silent, and even the trees are still.

She tightens her grip on her bag, weirdly uncomfortable. 

Her breathing quickens as the hairs on the back of her neck are disturbed. On impulse, she drops to the ground into a crouch.

A black shape throws itself over her head, missing her by centimetres.

A wretched gasp tears from her throat as she takes in the dark matted fur of the creature in front of her. Even in the daylight, she can't work out what she's seeing.

Stiles recognises the electric blue eyes only too well.

The thing snorts an animalistic breath, its claws clicking on the pavement as it lopes back towards her, and even hunched on its hind legs, it is at least six foot tall.

She presses herself back against the wall, scrabbling blindly for something, anything, she can get her hands on.

But there's nothing. 

As it nears, she knows she needs to move. 

It drops down onto all fours, seeming to take its time as it looms closer.

Stiles shoves a hand into her bag, searching frantically until her fingers close around a cold, metal cylinder. She yanks it out and points it at the creature, spraying deodorant straight into its gnarled muzzle. 

It pulls away with a yowl of frustration, but, Stiles realises with a pang of horror, not pain. 

However, a distraction is a distraction. She rolls to the side and drags herself to her feet.

She realises too late that the road is on the other side of the creature, her only option now is toward the field and, of course, the woods.

But she takes her chances and lunges, setting off at a sprint.

She can hear it behind her, but lumbering at an uneven pace, doesn't know what to make of it, keeps going. There's no way of knowing what that thing could do to her if she stops.

The wood isn't too dense at the edge of the field, but the floor is riddled with bushes, leaves and fallen branches, turning Stiles' high power sprint to a laboured hurdle.

By now, her own footsteps are so loud that she'd have no chance of hearing anything behind her.

When she slams into something, any remaining breath is thoroughly knocked out of her. Strong arms wrap around her shoulders, holding her close.

She wheezes a breath as deep as it will go before looking up.

Her first reaction, as incredibly fleeting as it is, is disappointment. She's not met with the dark hair and green eyes she was half-expecting. Her secondary reactions are shock and relief.

“Oh my god, Scott,” she almost sobs.

“What are you doing out here?”

Stiles tears away from her friend and whips around, keeping her back close to him as she scans the trees.

“It was right behind me, I was running, it was-” she gasps, her breathing heavy and painful.

“What was?”

“The- the thing that-” she coughs, putting too much pressure on her already exhausted lungs, “attacked you.”

She feels sick, there's a hideous burn in her chest, sharpened by fear and adrenaline.

“Scott,” she frowns, “why are _you_ out here? Why weren't you answering your phone?”

“You should go, Stiles, get out of here,” he's not looking at her. His eyes are trained on something beyond her, past her shoulder.

“It's alright, Scott,” a voice from behind her begins, “I wanted her to come.”

Peter Hale emerges from the trees, limping slightly.

Alarm bells are going off in Stiles' head, she tugs at Scott, “let's go. We should go.”

He shakes his head firmly, “no. You need to. Peter, she's not involved.”

“What's going on?” she steps away from Scott, unsettled by his tone.

“Nothing you can help with, go home.”

Peter tuts behind Stiles, she whips round to face him. 

“The poor girl looks terrified, you can't just send her off into the forest on her own. Besides, like I said, I brought her here.”

“And like _I_ said, this has nothing to do with her,” Scott growls.

Peter sighs and rolls his eyes, “you really are a stubborn one, aren't you.”

“For fuck's sake, will someone tell me what is going on,” Stiles demands, although her voice isn't quite as strong as she had hoped it would be.

“It's too dangerous for her-”

“Oh give it a break, Scott,” Stiles snaps, exhausted and confused.

“We're on a mission, Stiles. We have something we need to take care of. For the greater good, really. Scott here stupidly believes we'll manage it on our own, but I know better.”

“And?”

“And,” Peter continues, “what more suitable an ally than the smart one?”

Stiles huffs a laugh of disbelief, “yeah? What could I possibly do?”

Peter smiles, his eyes lighting up an iridescent blue that sends Stiles stumbling backwards in horror.

“You're- You've- You're a murderer?”

Peter rolls his eyes and lets his fangs drops, “how dull. Maybe you wouldn't make as good a wolf as I thought.”

“You're not an alpha, you can't turn me,” Stiles feels Scott's hand come to rest on her shoulder, she looks up at him with wide eyes. “Scott, what are you-?”

“This is too far, Peter,” he warns, a dark look in his eyes that Stiles would never have thought possible. Scott tugs her behind him, creating a barrier with his body.

“Stop being such a moral warrior, Scott. Is being a werewolf really so bad?”

Scott tenses and shoves Stiles away with a single instruction; run.

Stiles runs with Peter's jagged roar ringing in her ears as she goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i feel like i'm being really mean to scott
> 
> let me know what you think!  
> thanks for all the kudos and comments!  
> i'm probably updating at the worst time!
> 
> ps i really like the 100 why didn't i know it existed before  
> bob morley is bae


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> magical~  
> i think this is a bit shorter than usual soz

Stiles runs.

She runs until she trips, falls to her hands and knees.

Shuddering breaths tear from her lungs, the taste of metal strong on her tongue, medicinal in her throat. She drops forward, presses her forehead to the backs of her hands, curling into a ball on the forest floor.

To be honest, Stiles is a little sick of running. Particularly of running _away_.

Jesus has it really only been a week?

After a moment, she raises her head and squints through where the trees are thinning. There's a house and conflict flutters in her stomach as she pulls herself to her feet to look closer.

Stiles' steps are tentative, one foot in front of the other, quietly, carefully.

As she gets a better view, she knows it's the Hale house for sure.

But the game has changed. Apparently Peter isn't safe, what does that say for the others?

She doesn't stop walking, though. In fact, her pace quickens as she approaches. She practically jumps up the porch steps and heads straight for the door. It's locked, she finds as she turns the handle.

No one's home.

Well, she presumes no one is home, as it is probable that werewolves are quite protective of territory and wouldn't let just anyone pop their head into the den.

Especially when they have super-hearing and would recognise a threat from a mile off.

But Stiles isn't a threat, she's anything but.

Regardless, she's willing to take a bet that the house is empty.

It's almost eerily silent, right up until she hears uneven footsteps behind her, one heavy, one dragging through the leaves slightly.

“Fuck,” Stiles clenches her eyes shut, takes a deep breath before she turns with her back to the door.

“Stiles,” Peter greets her, his expression humourless. She notices that his feet are bare and his shirt is only half buttoned – had he been so underdressed before? She also notices that there's quite a bit of blood on him.

“Where's Scott?” She raises her voice slightly, a false bravado.

The werewolf cracks his neck, “busy.”

“What do you want, Peter?”

“Not to be cliché, but honestly, Stiles, I would really like some revenge.”

“What?” Stiles frowns incredulously, “against who? _Me_?”

“Don't be ridiculous,” he's still approaching, strangely making slow progress.

“You're making very little sense, I hope you realise this,” Stiles casts her eyes around the porch, “no, really. First, you seem to want to, what- _bite_ me? Not that that would help as far as I can see, considering you're not an alpha so that would probably just kill me. And now you want revenge? I really don't see how I fit into this. What revenge exactly?”

Leant against the railing in the corner is a selection of sporting equipment. A few golf-clubs, a couple of old looking badminton and tennis rackets, and bingo. A baseball bat.

Peter is nearly at the steps, and Stiles takes her chance to lunge for the bat.

Just as her hand closes around it, Peter is knocked to the ground, and out of her current view, in a blur.

Stiles clutches the bat to her chest, hearing snarls and growls, she peers out of the porch to see Derek pinning his uncle to the ground.

“Oh Jesus,” she whispers in relief, glad that not all the Hales have suddenly decided she should be their new scratching post.

Derek spares her a glance, a quick once-over.

Stiles appreciates the sentiment, however she can't help that the moment he does, she flinches.

Blue eyes.

“What are you doing, Peter?” Derek grits out, his canines looking awfully intimidating.

“She's back, didn't you know?” Peter face contorts into cold rage. He allows Derek a moment to process his words before continuing, “she's going to finish us off.”

This, Stiles thinks, is a frustrating moment to start playing the pronoun game. Obviously, they're not talking about _her_.

The younger werewolf is quiet, his complexion pale and his shoulders heaving. Derek adjusts his grip on Peter, keeps it tight and controlled.

“She's already given me a present, I'd say I have a few hours before it really kicks in though.”

Stiles frowns, but her eyes scan almost directly to his leg – he'd been limping. 

“Why hasn't it healed?” The words fall from her tongue before she can hold them in. Not her greatest moment, drawing the attention of two high power predators.

Peter coughs a short, maniacal laugh. Something sputters onto his lips, it looks like blood but it's... black. “Wolfsbane,” he reaches past Derek's hands to wipe at his mouth, “I may have been a little too optimistic. It's working fast.”

“Wolfsbane?”

Derek's expression is closed off, shut down, blank.

Something tightens in Stiles' chest.

Roaring with exertion, Peter gets his claws in Derek's sides and turns them over, until he's holding his nephew into the dirt.

Derek roars right back, but he's struggling. He can't get leverage against Peter without hurting him further, Stiles realises. Derek can't hurt family.

Funnily, Peter doesn't seem to have a problem with this.

“This was all you, Derek. Don't look at me like _I'm_ the villain here,” Peter's spitting as he talks. He's losing it. Or, losing what little he had left.

But left from what? Stiles still can't piece together anything that might make sense of this situation. 

But- what is it Cora had said?

There had been a dangerous certainty in her when she spoke about the Argents. There had been a painful vulnerability in Derek when he talked about the hunters. 

There had been something sickening about Allison's aunt. Who just happens to be visiting.

“Kate Argent,” Stiles concludes, stating it out loud to the general vicinity.

On the ground, Derek whimpers.

“See,” Peter's tone is almost triumphant, “I knew she was smart.”

Stiles wants more answers, she needs to understand what is going on.

But Derek looks so defeated, so accepting.

“Look, I really don't get this but,” she adjusts her grip on the bat, “you need to stop that.”

In a leap of faith, she darts forward and swings as hard as she can. There's a satisfying crack as the wood hits Peter's temple.

Unfortunately, she's one-hundred-and-something pounds of pale skin and fragile bone, and Peter is at least twice her size in muscle, and he just shakes off the blow before more or less backhanding her, his claws catching on her jaw as she's shoved away. Her teeth catch her tongue and the taste of blood fills her mouth.

Fortunately, Derek takes this opportunity to overpower his uncle once again.

He tilts his head back and howls.

Stiles wipes her chin and listens, and in the near distance she hears it. Or them, she supposes.

The Hale Pack's response.

“You know I'm right, Derek,” Peter says, “we can stop her. Scott was on board until he got too emotional. He simply doesn't understand the importance of sacrifice.”

Peter relaxes where he lies, closes his eyes, exhales.

“I, however, am quite familiar with this concept,” when he opens his eyes, they are glowing. His features begin to shift, becoming more grotesque.

Dark hair sprouts on Peter's cheeks, on his neck, his forearms.

His body contorts, bulking up impossibly beneath Derek.

Stiles watches as Peter transforms, changing until he is a hulking mass of muscle and matted fur.

“But how-” she whispers, helpless as the monster throws Derek away from him easily. Peter doesn't attack him though, he sits back on his haunches, facing the tree-line.

As if on cue, a figure sprints out from the forest. On all fours.

Stiles hasn't seen many wolves in her time (other than the supernatural kind) but she can tell that this one is huge, its shoulder must come up to Stiles' stomach.

Pure black fur except for the white rings around luminous red eyes. Stiles' breath is caught in her throat. But in a moment, the wolf is gone and Talia Hale is standing opposite her brother, emanating pure strength and power.

Stiles is so distracted by this scene that she doesn't notice Derek approach her until he's slipping his arms around her to lift her to standing. She doesn't bother to protest as he begins to guide her away, one hand around her waist, the other tangled with her own, she knows he's unlikely to listen.

Derek's jaw is clenched and his eyebrows are dangerously troubled.

Stiles feels compelled to try to comfort him, but they're not quite out of the deep water yet.

“Peter,” Talia says, her voice is soft, “what has happened to you?”

Stiles stops walking, despite Derek's insistence, and turns to watch over her shoulder. He stops too, letting go his hold of her.

“You have become a monster, brother. I can't let this go on any longer,” with no further hesitation, she leaps towards him, transforming as she goes, and closes her jaws around his throat and tearing, a mess of crimson blood and dark fur.

Derek flinches, Stiles can't look away.

Her wide eyes see the exact moment Peter grasps for Talia as a last moment attack, his claws elongated.

A flare of panic shoots through her with a yell of shock.

And Peter falls backwards with a gargled yowl, his distorted hands fly to his mutilated throat and suddenly there are flames.

His entire body is engulfed in fire.

Stiles promptly blacks out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sucks about arden, huh  
> can't believe she's 30 tho??  
> like why is it so impossible to employ young actors to play teenagers??  
> like i get not employing under 18s for tv series bc of how many hours they can work and education and stuff  
> but 30 year olds?  
> geez
> 
> i'm a bit worried that i've made a bad decision in regards to this story... we'll just have to see huh  
> hope you enjoyed!  
> pls leave me love xx


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 300+ kudos?  
> thank you <3

When Stiles opens her eyes it must be only moments later. Everything is a blur. None of her senses seem to be able to focus but the light is blinding, and it's like time has slowed all the way down, as if she's in a nature documentary.

There are voices buzzing somewhere, but not near enough or slow enough for her to work out what is being said.

Her limbs feel elasticated, stretched too far, almost to the snapping point. She's not quite sure where her point of gravity is, if she's lying down or standing up.

“Uh, god,” she groans, squinting.

Someone adjusts her a little and pushes her head between her knees, although considering she's already fainted, she's not entirely sure if that's the correct procedure. Could be.

As she takes a deep breath ( _in through the nose_ ) the smell of smoke burns in her nostrils ( _out through the mouth_ ), in her lungs.

There's something rancid too, like the time she caught her wrist on the frying pan, and the time she attempted to use a curling wand. It smells like burning flesh.

Nausea surges in her stomach and she fights away the hands holding her down, rolls to the side to cough and spit on the ground beside her.

The bandage on her fingers is frayed and caught with earth, her hands are pale and grubby. There's dirt under her fingernails.

She wipes away the water from her eyes and looks up.

Peter's corpse is no longer alight but it's charred, the skin molten like wax.

“That's-” Stiles grimaces, “god. That's fucked up.”

“Stiles,” a tired voice speaks, it's Talia, she's moved to stand between Stiles and the body, blocking her view, “why don't you go inside and call Alan.”

Stiles looks up at the alpha only to find her eyes are trained elsewhere. Derek is crouched on Stiles' other side, gaze to the ground.

Stiles takes the hint and nods, accepting Talia's hand to stand on unsure feet. She turns to face Derek, but finds herself unsure of how to proceed.

A moment later, however, the werewolf stands and stalks to the house without acknowledging anyone. Stiles frowns after him, but Talia just shakes her head and tells her to go inside.

When Stiles reaches the door, she finds that Derek hasn't unlocked it, simply torn it open and left it hanging. She hesitates.

She's not sure if it's such a great idea entering a house with a distressed werewolf.

But it's Derek. 

She's (sort of) handled an out of control Scott, she can handle a Derek.

With a shaky breath, she steps inside, keeping an eye out for the phone on her way through the house. As she passes the kitchen, she notices a a black rotary dial phone on one of the counters. She can't help rolling her eyes, deciding that it's better than nothing. Pinned to the wall beside the phone is a sheet with numbers scrawled onto it. 

Stiles scans the list, her eyes catching at the family section; each personal mobile number is on there. There's a moment of indecision before she takes the pen stuck to the wall with blu-tack and copies the numbers down onto her arm.

Cora.

Derek.

Her heart jumps as she skips over Peter.

Talia.

There are a couple of other names she doesn't recognise and ignores, but something is missing. She frowns and tries to brush off the feeling that something isn't right with the list.

And then she puts the pen back, begins to dial the number for Dr Alan Deaton.

It rings three times before the call picks up, but Stiles doesn't give him a chance to speak.

“Dr Deaton?” She begins, ready to plunge into whatever she's going to say (she's not quite decided yet).

“Stiles!” The voice that answers is tinged with a mixture of worry and relief, and definitely not Deaton.

“I'm at the Hale house-” she pauses, “Scott?”

“What's happening? Are you okay? Peter got awa-”

“Where's Deaton? Why do you have his phone?” she demands before adding, “I'm fine.”

“We're on our way. Coming up the track now- Oh my god, is that- Stiles what's happened?”

“It's- It's a long story. I'm hanging up, see you in a minute.”

“Okay.”

“And Scott?” She squeezes her eyes shut, “please don't do anything stupid.”

Stiles hangs up the phone before he can respond, feeling like a shitty friend. He's not being terrible on purpose, he's just overwhelmed, and she knows that. She does. 

She'll apologise later, for now she needs to make one more call.

“Beacon Hills Police Department,” answers the friendly voice of Valda, “how can I help you?”

“Val, it's Stiles.”

“Stiles? Do you need me to get your dad? What's up, honey?”

“No!” She says too forcefully and tries again, “no, thanks. Actually I was wondering if Parrish was around?”

Valda hums into the phone as she checks, “seems like he left not too long ago.”

“Was there a call? An emergency?”

“Now, you know I can't share that information with you. Oh no, was he supposed to be picking you up from school today?”

“Uh, yeah, sort of. If you see him, tell him that I uh... I'm at a friend's house, so not to worry about the lift. They'll drive me home later.”

“Okay then, hon. Anything else you need?”

“No, it's okay. Thanks.”

“Anytime. Except not really, because you know you're not supposed to use this line!”

Stiles laughs softly at the reprimand, “yes, ma'am.”

This time when Stiles hangs up, she moves away from the phone, moving to the window to look outside. A car has pulled up beside the house, but she can't see past it to who is there. She presumes the car belongs to Deaton, and that Scott is out there somewhere.

But she doesn't go out.

Instead, she turns to the stairs after glancing into the other rooms on the ground floor and finding them empty.

She probably shouldn't go up there. It's not like there's anything she can do for Derek, he probably really just wants to be alone. She doesn't blame him.

In fact, she can completely empathise.

But she feels compelled to at least check on him, so she begins her ascent, taking each step carefully.

All the doors are open but one. She recognises the bathroom, the guest-room, Cora's room, even the master room.

And furthest down the landing, at the back of the house, is a door she hasn't even been near before. There's a staircase to another floor, but she ignores it in favour of this particular room.

Stiles approaches the door, places her hand on the handle, and slowly opens the door.

The room on the other side is not what she is expecting at all.

It's the bedroom of a girl. Or a woman, Stiles supposes.

Not that she's into the gendering of non-sentient, inanimate objects. There are just a lot of clues.

The dressing table with a mirror marred by photographs and stickers, the posters on the walls of pop icons and niche, artsy movies, the oversized wardrobe with patterns painted on it in what appears to be nail varnish, the multi-coloured woven rug, and the head board of the bed graffitied with doodles.

Stiles is moving towards the dressing mirror before she can stop herself, getting closer to inspect the photos.

The common factor of almost every single snap is a girl with dark hair and hazel eyes.

As Stiles leans in, she catches her reflection. She's pale where her skin isn't streaked with dirt and blood. There are three strikes sliced out of her jaw, the flesh is jagged and averts her gaze before she faints again. Never can stand gore, as much as it fascinates her.

Dread pools in her stomach as she realises that she can't just explain away this wound, it's too visible and too recognisable. Maybe he'd believe that a dog at the clinic took a swipe at her.

Is she going to need stitches? She hopes not.

“Get out,” growls a voice behind her. She whips around to see Derek stood a few feet from her, his jaw clenched and teeth gritted.

As she faces him, though, his eyes flicker over her wounds, his expression momentarily concerned before darkening again.

“ _Now_ ,” he snarls, his eyes lighting up a dangerous blue.

Stiles casts her gaze around the room one last time, landing on Derek for a second before she moves.

Their shoulders brush as she passes him and she can practically feel the tension in his muscles from that one touch. 

She catches her words before they escape her lips, deciding it's better to say nothing despite the multitudes of questions shooting through her mind. Instead, she makes her way back downstairs, readying herself to be tackled by a panicked Scott.

She's not disappointed.

As Stiles slips out of the house, she's almost knocked down by her best friend before she can even reach the bottom steps of the porch. Scott clutches her shoulders, eyeing her up and down. When he notices the cuts on her face, a deep rumble emerges from his chest and he runs a finger down her jaw gently, making her wince.

Then he smothers her in a fierce hug.

“Miss Stilinski?” Over Scott's shoulder, Stiles sees Deaton approaching from the direction of the body, it's covered with a sheet now, “can I speak with you for a moment?”

Stiles pats her friend's back one last time before pushing him away with a firm “I'm fine”, before stepping past him to the vet.

“Please, do sit,” Deaton gestures to the garden bench, and they both sit down, “ah, have this.”

From somewhere, he reveals a- “what is this, some kind of medicine?” Stiles quirks an eyebrow.

“It's a lollipop, I'm sure you're well acquainted with the concept? For your blood sugar.”

“Oh,” Stiles accepts the the bright red candy, unwraps it and pops it in her mouth. It's cherry flavour. She gestures for the veterinarian to begin.

“Alpha Hale informs me that you lost consciousness?” He says.

“Oh, yeah. Because of the uh- the blood and stuff, I guess,” she wipes her nose with her sleeve absently, twists the lollipop around on her tongue.

“Do you still feel dizzy or weak?” He asks.

“Nah? I mean, I'm kinda tired and a bit shaky, I was a bit funny straight after but I think I'm good now,” she waves the lolly around for a moment to support her point.

“I see. Do you remember what happened prior to the loss of consciousness?”

Stiles casts the vet a look, “uh, sure? Derek and uh, Peter were fighting and Talia bust in and stopped Peter by uh ripping out his throat,” she frowns, “he nearly got her, but then he...” 

She narrows her eyes, racking her brain, thinking she must be remembering it wrong.

“But then he...?” Deaton prompts.

“He burst into flames.”

They're quiet for a moment before he asks, “do you know how?”

Stiles looks up and straight into the veterinarian's dark eyes, searching for something in his cryptic nature. She shakes her head.

He nods slowly. Calculating. Then he offers her what she supposes is a gentle smile, “I'll let you go now, thank you for answering my questions.”

“That's it?” She frowns as he stands up, she cranes her neck.

“That's it,” he says and he walks away, back to Talia.

Stiles scuffs the toe of her sneaker into the dirt ground and exhales a long, tired breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i kind of want to change the title of this fic?  
> the name is a bit... feel good teen movie, a bit too optimistic for my tastes (heh), which is not exactly what i want  
> problems are;  
> a) idk what to change it to (yet)  
> b) would that confuse people?
> 
> thanks for reading!!!  
> my a levels are going to end me, but at least i have fanfics to keep me going eh  
> let me know what you thinkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkkk


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi  
> remember me?  
> oops

There's a heaviness around the Hale house. A sort of... resigned gloom, Stiles supposes.

Apparently, Peter Hale has been known for his radical views of the world, as well as his manipulative behaviour.

Even so, the Hale pack has lost one of their own, and from what Stiles can see, it's weighing on the family.

From where Stiles is sitting, she can see Talia and Deaton discussing burial procedures. For the moment, the alpha is all business, as if she has compartmentalised the death of her brother. There is a time for mourning, Stiles supposes, but right now there is a body on the lawn.

Deaton appears as impassive as ever.

Scott is trailing around after his boss, frowning. Stiles presumes he feels responsible for what happened. He isn't. He was just a pawn in Peter's game. 

At least, Stiles thinks, he's stopped angsting all over the place. She's glad he's trying to help and show some compassion rather than losing control.

Derek hasn't reappeared yet, Stiles has no idea where he might be. She supposes it's not really any of her business.

Even so, there's a tug in her chest.

She turns her eyes to the higher storeys of the mansion. It seems like such an excessively large house for just Talia, Cora and Derek – and even with Peter, Stiles doesn't think that much more space would be filled.

The default setting in her mind has always been that there are infinite Hales crammed into one living space. That the mansion is always overrun with uncontrollable children and constant disruption and laughter and family.

She can vaguely remember being at school with more than just a couple of the Hales, they were everywhere.

But she looks at it now and it seems so empty.

Like something has happened.

But surely she would know if it had, she is after all, the Sheriff's daughter. There isn't much that escapes her.

Well, werewolves, sure.

But who saw that one coming, huh?

Apparently Lydia Martin... Stiles should probably stop avoiding her. She's beginning to learn that she can't always ignore a problem until it goes away.

“Stiles,” a voice breaks Stiles out of her reverie. It's Talia, her expression is unreadable, “you should go home now.”

Perhaps it's a poor choice of words, but Stiles feels rejection coil in her gut like shame. She's obviously outstayed her welcome, and all the shit that goes down is arguably her fault. After all, she has the knack of getting in the way. She's been told this multiple times by many people.

“Oh,” says Stiles, standing up abruptly, cheeks hot, “yeah.”

Before she can take her exit, Talia catches her arm, “I think you shouldn't come back for a little while.”

Stiles knows her mouth is open, caught in surprise.

When her brain comes back online, she mumbles her condolences to the alpha and catches up to Scott and Deaton who are waiting for her by the vet's car.

Once she's settled into the back seat, she spares a final glance at the house.

She's almost certain she sees a figure standing in one of the top windows, watching the car as it pulls away.

 

When there's a knock at the door, Stiles has very little interest in going downstairs to answer it. She's sprawled on her bed, hands limp on her stomach, eyes trained on the ceiling, and has been for at least 45 minutes.

So, she ignores it.

“Stiles?” Calls a voice, it's muffled and slightly tentative, but definitely holds no malice. “It's Jordan- uh, Deputy Parrish.”

With a sigh, Stiles rolls herself upright and thunks down the stairs, opening the latch and letting the door swing inwards as she steps back. She crosses her arms and quirks an eyebrow at the officer.

The exact moment he registers the scratches on her face is marked with a gape of horror on his part, “what happened?”

Stiles waves her hand dismissively, “it's nothing. What are you doing here?”

“I got your message at the station, and the voicemail, uh,” he rubs the back of his neck, “I'm sorry I didn't get back to you sooner. I dropped by the school, though, and I found these.”

He holds up Stiles' bag and phone.

Stiles' answering smile is potentially excessively innocent, “oh, I had wondered where those got to.” 

She moves take them but Parrish swipes them out of her reach, “you're not telling me something.”

“And what might that be?”

“Stiles,” Parrish says warningly.

“Hey now,” Stiles furrows her brow, mirroring the deputy's expression and pouts, “don't wanna age prematurely. The wind'll change and you'll be stuck that way.”

“If something happened-”

“Where were you this afternoon, deputy?”

“There was a call, you know I can't share more than that with you.”

“Ah,” Stiles nods, her chin jutting forward mockingly, “of course. But unfortunately, I can't share anything with you until you've shared something with me.”

Parrish sighs, “you're impossible, you know that?”

“I've been told,” Stiles idly picks some dirt from under her nail, “where's my dad?”

“About that, he can't make it back tonight.”

If Parrish notices Stiles' shoulders slump just a fraction, her smug expression slip for one millisecond, he doesn't mention it, “he said he wouldn't object to you staying at the McCalls'. Or you could order a pizza?” 

“And what if I want to do both?” Stiles puffs her chest out a little, but there's no mischievous glint in her eye, just weariness tinged with disappointment.

Parrish leans in conspiratorially, “well I won't tell if you won't.”

Stiles lets out a breathy laugh, “okay, cool.”

“I've got to head back to work now, but I'll pass by again later and drop you off at Scott's, if you'd like?”

Stiles shrugs, “since I'm apparently still not allowed to drive.”

Parrish offers her the bag in his hands, and turns back down the drive with a wave over his shoulder.

“You know I'm going to find out anyway,” Stiles mutters, rolling her eyes before heading back into the house.

 

“Dude,” Stiles says, eyes on the TV and fingers wrapped loosely around a more than half-empty bottle, “you need to talk to Allison.”

There's a soft _thunk_ as Scott's head falls back against the wall, “I know, man. I know.”

“She seemed pretty upset when I spoke to her,” Stiles can hear her words slurring slightly as she speaks. She offers the bottle back to Scott. They'd found the rum in his mom's drinks cabinet, right at the back and only three-quarters full.

“It's just so- so-” he takes a swig and sighs, “so complicated at the moment, you know?”

“I know.”

A heaviness in Stiles' tone draws Scott's gaze to her, concerned. He's not feeling much of anything from the bottle, but the familiar intimacy of the setting softens the edges on his nerves, “Stiles, are you okay?”

She rolls her eyes, decidedly ignoring the events of the day, “we're not talking about _me_ , bro. This is about you and Allison. You two are like _soulmates_ or some shit. Freaking meant for each other I swear. You could always tell her about all-” she gesticulates clumsily, “ _this_. You never know she might be into odaxelagnia.” Stiles snickers softly before frowning, “or she might _have_ odaxelagnia, I'm not actually sure how to put it into a sentence...”

Scott squints at Stiles for a moment, but she just shakes her head and takes the drink back from him.

“Relationships are weird, man. You just don't realise because you're in one. Oh, oh, did I tell you?” Stiles scrambles to sit up and face her friend, the amber liquid sloshes dangerously in its bottle, “Lydia came round my house.”

“I know, dude. The orange,” Scott's expression is soft with fond amusement. 

“ _No_ , there was more to the story, _god_. We bumped into my dad on the way in, and Scott,” she closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, “Scott he thought I was trying to _woo_ her. My dad thought _I_ was trying to woo _Lydia_. Lydia _Martin_.”

Scott quirks a brow, “weren't you?”

Stiles throws her arms out in a flail of defensive outrage, Scott rescues the bottle from her before she spills it over his bed.

“No! Besides, as if _Lydia Martin_ could even _be_ wooed by someone like me,” she slumps back down, “god. She's so perfect, isn't she?”

“I guess,” Scott says amicably, “she's pretty good friends with Allison.”

“ _Allison_. Shit. Back on track. I bumped into her and she was asking after you so you need to like _call_ her. Don't send her a shitty, half-assed text. There's a time and a place, a time and a place. Wouldn't wanna fuck up your Romeo and Juliet storyline, what with you being a werewolf and her being a-” Stiles cuts herself off with a wide-eyed moment of open-mouthed gaping.

“What? What is it?”

“I gotta- I should go home,” Stiles fumbles to stand. The world tilts dangerously once she's upright and she grabs onto the side of the bed. Scott places a steadying hand on her arm, but she brushes it off. “Thanks for the,” she waves a hand around the cuts on her face that have been cleaned and tended to.

“Stiles, let me get you home, I don't think you should be going on your own.”

Her balance wavers again as she shakes her head, “I'm fine. Do your homework, McCall, don't wanna be upsetting Harris.”

Stiles grabs her hoody and offers a final wave before she leaves the house.

It's not quite pitch dark outside, but the twilight is heavy and mildly unnerving. She knows that the creature is gone. Peter Hale is dead and the threat has been eliminated. And yet, it's almost as if the invasion of the supernatural in her life has set the default to 'danger'. She feels like she needs to be alert, wary.

As it is, Stiles is failing at this.

She keeps walking, it's not that far to her house from Scott's, she knows the route like the back of her hand. Although, Stiles isn't actually sure how well she knows the back of her hand. Like sure, she's had it all her life but that doesn't mean she could _draw_ it from memory or anything. She doesn't understand that phrase, to be honest, she feels like there are probably more relatable ways to describe how well someone knows something, like for example-

“What are you doing?”

Stiles spins and finds her face to face with an honest to god creature of the night.

Derek Hale scowls at her, but it's only half-hearted. 

“Wait, did I- did I say that out loud?” Stiles frowns, tries to remember what she was thinking. She comes up blank.

“Stiles,” Derek practically _growls_ , “you're drunk.”

Stiles crosses her arms and narrows her eyes at him, “what are _you_ doing?”

“Jesus Christ, Stiles. It's been hours since-” Derek cuts himself off with a huff, his eyebrows seem to spasm with frustration, “it's dangerous out here, and you're just-”

“Did you follow me?”

“You're drunk and out here alone. Don't you have any sense of self-preservation?” Derek's voice is a harsh whisper which, considering they're in a residential area, is probably a more appropriate volume to be speaking at than Stiles' careless drawl.

“Can werewolves get drunk? I'm pretty sure Scott had the same amount as me...”

“You're underage, do you want to get arrested by your own father?” If it's possible, Derek's scowl gets even deeper.

Stiles thinks this is the most words he's ever said to her.

“It's legal where I'm from.”

Derek blinks, “what? Where are you from?”

Stiles leans in and whispers conspiratorially, “Poland.”

“Jesus, Stiles. Go home.”

“I _was_ going home until _you_ stopped me,” Stiles mutters as she turns back around and continues on her journey.

It only takes a few moments of walking for Stiles to trip on an uneven paving stone, she's almost immediately steadied.

She hadn't realised that Derek was following her.

He doesn't let go of her elbow the whole way home.

Neither of them speak.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbf i've left fics longer than this before  
> feel special  
> anyways a shit ton of stuff got in the way (exams, tour, play etc)  
> but here you go my lovelies
> 
> thank you for all the love!  
> (odaxelagnia – biting kink)
> 
> ps. what colour even are tyler hoechlin's eyes?


	14. ok, GET EXCITED

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> PREVIOUSLY ON HFTM  
> -stiles is a cis girl  
> -derek is hot and bad at people  
> -scott is a werewolf  
> -talia is alive  
> -peter lost it and is now dead (by talia and some unexplained fire)  
> -kate argent is in town

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> to desolate_noir and tingler - thank you so much for the supportive comments! <3
> 
> yeah so i changed my mind?
> 
> i'll explain at the end...

The hollows of Stiles' cheeks stand prominent in the fluorescence of the bathroom light. The world is slowly, but surely, returning to focus, but she can still feel the hum of the alcohol behind her eyes. There's a sheen across her skin, a layer sweat and dirt and exhaustion.

Stiles snorts at her reflection; as a child she had been fucking _cherubic_ , with her upturned nose and rounded cheeks, but at this moment she more closely resembles an _America's Next Top Model_ reject.

She spits her last mouthful of toothpaste into the sink and rinses, splashing some cool water on her face before practically smothering herself with the hand towel.

When Stiles charges into her bedroom, the squawk of surprise that escapes her is really the only response to finding Derek Hale standing at her bookshelf that is acceptable. 

“Did I- Did you-?” she splutters, gawking at him.

The werewolf shrugs, “I used the window.”

“The-” Stiles cuts herself off with a sigh, pressing her palm to her forehead, “of course. And here I thought you were one of the more adjusted in your family.” Stiles almost doesn't hear the sharp inhale of breath, her eyes go wide and she stumbles a few steps forward, “I shouldn't have said that, I'm drunk and I-”

“No,” Derek says quietly, with the slightest hint of a grimace, “you're probably right.”

Stiles grabs a sweater from her desk chair and pulls it on as she all but throws herself onto the bed. She settles cross-legged and fiddles with the string on her hoody as she watches him expectantly, “so? I presume you're here for a reason. Although I guess that reason could just be you didn't get your fill of my presence when you escorted me home. You can admit it, I'll understand. I promise to only tease you a little bit, it's okay to be in awe of my-”

“Stiles,” Derek cuts her off, his eyebrow quirked in what she presumes (hopes) is mild amusement rather than murderous intent. He's seeming more like the Derek she spoke to out in the grass. God, she could get whiplash from his personality swings.

“I know,” he sighs – and damn, how much had she said aloud? 

She feels her cheeks heat up, “sorry. You wanna sit?” She gestures around vaguely, her desk chair is once again covered with clothes, and her bed is unmade. 

Derek doesn't answer, his eyes trained on her bookshelf.

“I feel like you're assessing my taste in literature right now,” Stiles narrows her eyes, “I know most of them are kids books, but I'll have you know they are classics.” She clambers off the bed and crowds close to the werewolf, trying to catch a look over his shoulder at what he finds so interesting. 

Wordlessly, Derek takes something off the shelf and turns to face Stiles. In his hands is a silver picture frame, the metal etched with twisting patterns and lettering, worn away from over-handling. 

Their eyes meet after a moment and Stiles gently takes the werewolf's sleeve and pulls him towards the bed. She edges backwards and doesn't let go until she's settled and Derek is perched on the edge, as if he's unsure. There's a heaviness to his posture that Stiles isn't sure how to handle.

“That's my mom,” Stiles says. She watches as Derek brushes his thumb over frame. “And me,” she adds after a moment. “I was... 7, I think. In that picture.”

Stiles is sat in her mother's lap, and both of them have the widest, cheesiest grins on their faces. Their complexions are slightly whited out by the flash of the disposable camera, but the amber-gold of their eyes couldn't be brighter or more alike.

“Mom couldn't stand having her photo taken, so she would always pull a stupid face to put my dad off. He's a stubborn son of a bitch though, if you'd wondered where I get that from.” Stiles hugs her knees to her chest, resting her chin in the crook of her elbow. “Me, though, I was delighted. I couldn't have enough photos taken of me.”

“When did she-” Derek's gaze is still on the picture, but then he shakes his head, “sorry, I don't mean to-”

“Maybe a year and a half after that,” Stiles cuts him off, “she was already sick we just didn't know.”

Derek finally looks up and meets Stiles' eyes like he's searching for something. Stiles offers the tiniest twitch of a smile before patting a space a little further onto the bed, inviting Derek to get more comfortable.

He slips off his shoes and jacket with what appears to be reluctance but is probably just awkwardness and slides back, crossing his legs and sitting much closer to Stiles.

“I didn't realise,” Derek begins, and Stiles raises her eyebrows questioningly, “I didn't realise before, but, I remember you.”

Unexpected. “Yeah?”

Derek hums thoughtfully, nodding, “when you said you were the Sheriff's kid. I thought the sheriff's kid was um-”

Stiles watches, vaguely amused, as the tips of Derek's ears turn pink, “you can say it. You thought the sheriff's kid was a boy.”

Derek ducks his head, embarrassed.

“It's the hair, isn't it,” Stiles can't help smirking a little, she'd never even considered Derek to have a bashful side before.

“Not that I don't think girls can have short hair,” Derek defends. 

Stiles' buzzcut had been legendary – for about two weeks before most people got over it. She still had gotten some stares from the slightly more conservative Beacon Hills residents, but nothing she couldn't handle.

“I hated hair, it was so annoying. So my mom just grabbed some clippers and was done with it. I _loved_ it.” The photo had been taken after one of her top-ups.

“What does this say?”

Stiles doesn't even have to look down to where Derek is tracing the letters on the frame with the tip of his finger to know.

“ _Dobranoc Złotko. Bede o tobie myslal do czasu az sie znow spotkamy,_ ” she recites.

“Polish?”

Stiles nods, “goodnight, honey. I'll be thinking about you until we meet again.”

They lapse into silence again, tinged with the ache of loss but somehow comfortable. It's broken when Derek clears his throat, like he's been working himself up to say something. 

“My dad and my sister, Laura, and some others. They... We don't know where they are.”

Stiles raises her head in alarm, eyebrows furrowed.

“I think- We, we think there's something mom's not telling us.”

“You and Cora?” Stiles asks, drawing her knees from her chest and leaning forward a little.

“Yeah. We think Peter probably knew, too. They just left, Stiles,” there's a vulnerability to Derek's expression that Stiles has never experienced before, “and no one talks about it.”

Stiles feels a tug in her chest, she knows that feeling. Under different circumstances but she can empathise.

“And I just have this feeling...” Derek takes a steadying breath, “I think all of this is my fault.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi guys  
> CORRECT THE POLISH IF IT'S BAD
> 
> so some people might not end up reading this chapter because of the previous message and some of you will have zero idea what i'm on about
> 
> basically, aaaaaages ago i had half of chapter 14 written, and then when i went back to complete it, it was gone and i had zero inspiration to rewrite that chapter
> 
> and then i finally decided today that i didn't like having this work on my account as there are numerous things i'm unhappy with
> 
> BUT THEN
> 
> after i got those comments on the message, i thought i might have a look at the story (as it had been so long) and somehow i managed to recover the missing chapter
> 
> and complete it
> 
> so here you go guys drama over
> 
> moral of the story? i'm as fickle as they come


End file.
